The New Vintage

The end of the typical riding season begets some of the most spectacular weather for riding as well as some of the most splendid temperatures for wandering among gatherings of riders to ogle contemporary and vintage machines.  Earlier in the Fall, my wife and I wandered among a collection of vintage iron spread out in the shade of a parking lot along the Ohio river front in Madison, Indiana.   Situated at one of the few bridge crossings of the river marking the boundary between Kentucky and Indiana, Madison's downtown area hosts a number of pubs and restaurants, a bookstore, chocolatier, and even a movie theater.  Madison has witnessed a revival of it's local businesses attributed in part to the contributions of the number of motorcyclists frequenting the area.  During the warmer months, the streets of the town can be lined with makes and models from every major modern manufacturer.  On special occasions, specimens of the common and not-so-common vintage variety make appearances as well, with riders mingling and sharing tales over a bite to eat and a plastic cup full of beverage of choice.

Old horse.

My passion for vintage bikes arises out of events such as these, where none of the brand animosity stands in the way of acknowledging the soulful reconstruction of machines.  The resurrection and maintenance of historied iron  for most engaged in the practice will never surpass more a personal, spiritual passion.  Few will make a living at it and few would care to.  My own interest in owning a piece of motorcycling history stems not only from an inviting community of enthusiasts but from a desire to preserve a link to a simpler time in motorcycling.

Today's machines offer a higher degree of reliability, safety, and comfort, but at the price of increasing complexity.  Similar to automobiles, the systems which govern fuel and air integration, stopping power, and timing display a measure of convolution beyond the skills of many shade-tree mechanics.  In some cases - without software furnished by the bike's manufacturer and specialized diagnostic equipment - the ability to calibrate and repair a modern motorcycle becomes impossible without dealership intervention.  While my experience with contemporary motorcycles - or as up-to-date as I can afford - results in longer, more comfortable, and enjoyable riding, I also find something lacking in recently manufactured machines.  A machine I must constantly transport to a dealer for service is a motorcycle with which I have been unable to bond - and a bike I am unlikely capable of fixing on the roadside or even after transport to my garage.

1984 HD XLS 1000 Roadster

The motorcycles I recall from my early days as a rider engendered in me a love not only of riding but of the satisfaction resulting from the care and upkeep of my motorcycle.  In those early days - my late teens and early 20's - a bike was often the only transportation I could afford.  To keep costs for upkeep in the minimal range, I learn to perform the maintenance and repair of the bike myself.  As the years slip by, I increase my knowledge of the intricacies of motorcycle repair.  I possess more refined tools, ample and sheltered work space, a great deal more patience - a far cry from a young man in his late teens wrenching away on an early 80's Kawasaki in the driveway of his dorm before heading to work. I still find enjoyment in learning how each of my machines function - even the computerized BMW with its rat's next of wires and relays.  But vintage machines return me to a simpler point in my life and to a time when wrench and screwdriver outweighed the need for a computer to keep a bike in solid running condition.  

Ironhead

I harbor no interest in the ownership of a new Harley-Davidson - though I believe they are beautifully crafted machines.  The common complaint registered by riders of other brands asserts that HD's amount to a bundle of antiquated technology not worth the purchase price.  In reality, modern Harley's contain as much technology as the contemporary BMW - throttle-by-wire, fuel-injection, ABS braking systems, anti-theft packages, infotainment systems including navigation, heated grips and seats - all while producing that wonderful old-world Harley sound on which the company built its reputation.  

What I accept in the purchase of a 1984 Harley-Davidson Sportster is the responsibility that comes with the maintenance of a 33-year-old motorcycle.  Likely, long days in the garage will pass before I am comfortable taking this machine far from home.  For those days when I long for the open highway, miles of road, and hours in the saddle, I entrust my Beemer - albeit getting a bit long in the tooth herself - to carry me on those journeys.  For now, I am content to ride roughshod on an aging Sportster over city streets and occasional teeth-rattling jaunt into the countryside.  And return to the garage to track down the next oil leak - all while watching my reflection shape itself around the surfaces of burnished chrome.

Labor Day Twist

The roads entering and departing Frankfort, KY offer some of the most sensational curves in the central area of the state - not to mention the opportunity to explore a bit of history in the process.  Rt. 421 remains a favorite of mine, whether I'm visiting the capital for the day or following that ribbon of asphalt southeast all the way to that wondrous Mecca of the two-wheeled life at the convergence of Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, and North Carolina.  Unfortunately, on Labor Day 2017, I only had enough time for a ride through the local environs.  

Something Old; Something New

1948 Indian Chief

As the summer nears it's end, we motorcyclists often begin to contemplate the fact that we may not have ridden as much as we'd prefer.  Many of us had plans to pursue particular rides - perhaps not far from our own backyards.  In the late Spring, I envision another pass down the Blue Ridge Parkway. I close my eyes and imagine myself standing along the shoulder of that iconic stretch of road waiting for the early morning fog to rise out of the valleys of the Virginia high country.  On some lengths of the Blue Ridge there is solitude and quiet that rivals a monastery.  While I can get a bit of the sacred lonesomeness of those mountains in the rural back roads of Kentucky - particularly the farther east one rides - I had hoped for some exposure to the cool mountain air and the scent of laurel.

1969 Ducati 

Alas, gremlin hunting through an aging R1150RT electrical system proves to be the principle menu item as Spring transitioned into summer.  Working on the BMW awakens in me a passion for maturing iron - especially of the German variety.  I've noticed a return of "things vintage" to the motorcycle world over the past few years, a yearning for the simpler machines of yesteryear lacking the complex electronic overlay of contemporary motorcycles.  Perhaps, too, we hunger for the experience those early machines brought us - the exhilaration of the ride punctuated by the heartbreak  of unreliable electrical systems, rough manufacturing, questionable stopping power.  Despite the problems I recall as inherent in those early machines of which I was custodian, my mind turns frequently to the concept of owning and caring for vintage hardware.

1973 Honda CL350

Nostalgia births those last gatherings in weather that promises to deliver a rider home in the same comfort under which one rolled away from the hacienda.  From this point forward - doubly so for those riding in northern latitudes - we're forced to ask ourselves if we must carry the liner for the jacket and spare, clear shield for the helmet.  We move into the season which often initiates the slumber of old iron through the winter - the slow shift of leaves from lush green to nature's fire.  The weather becomes fickle and the sun cannot be relied upon to predict the warmth of a weekend afternoon.  In my mind, the Autumn season encourages reflection, and I can think of no better opportunity than to gaze longingly at vintage machinery before the march toward winter truly begins.  

1964 BMW R27

On Sunday, August 27, 2017 my wife and I make the journey to Madison, IN for the first annual Thornton's Cycle End of Summer Bike Show.  The clear, sunny afternoon affords us the chance to witness some rare specimens of the motorbike world - some prime examples of restoration.  The event also showcases those machines with patina barely sufficient to hold the machine together.  Regardless of condition, each bike carries the marks of it's travels, etched into the brushed aluminum and smokey chrome.   By the time we left, having consumed a basket of chicken fingers and Coke from a can, the urge to possess and maintain one these rolling pieces of history simmers in the back of my mind.  

1975 BMW R75 and Company

That is, until I return home to the RT waiting in the garage for a transplant of starter and kill switches.  A part I order - rather than pay the ungodly price for new electrics fresh from the folks at Bosch - from a salvage yard somewhere beyond the wall of the Rocky Mountains.  I realize that all machines are in the slow process of becoming vintage.  All bikes gather the stories of their miles into their surfaces.  All a rider must do is survive and ride long enough.

Winter Solace

The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be.

--Anne Frank

Our January in Kentucky sported unusual temperatures. For the first time in several years, I hauled out the tent, sleeping bag, and other assorted outdoor gear and headed for the woods in midwinter. I enjoyed the sunrise from the shores of Kentucky Lake at Birmingham Ferry, a campground located about 10 miles or so beyond the north entrance to Land Between the Lakes national recreation area. Vacancy in the campground illustrated the benefit of sleeping outdoors during the typically colder months of the year. As the silence and chill of the evening settled in, my small fire mirrored the dim lights winking through the trees on the lake's western shore.

The life of the lone rider turned my eye inward from the moment I first threw my leg over the saddle of that beat up old '78 Yamaha I received for free from an uncle of mine. And in this lean winter month of the year, when darkness and cold come so readily each day, the golden wonder of the fading day and gentle washing of the shoreline by the water, I relished as a rare gift. When the rusted light of my campfire pushed away the night and the prayer of smoke rose toward the stars, I stared into glowing coals and allowed the memory of warmer times to to fill my spirit with hope for the days yet to come.

Riding the Ridge: Interlude--The Road to Willville

My first night camping in the Shenandoah National Park left me a little wary of the experience the following day. I'd spent a near 200 miles in the saddle during my second day on the Blue Ridge, and I hoped to find a more comfortable place to lay my head than I found in Mathew's Arm the previous evening. One of the truly remarkable pleasures of traveling the Blue Ridge Parkway by motorcycle lies in the abundance of cycle only campgrounds sprinkled at regular intervals beginning at roughly the half way point when running the Parkway from north to south. For the uninitiated, these spots are campgrounds that cater only to motorcyclists or, in certain cases, those travelers towing motorcycles.

I pulled in to Willville Motorcycle Campground located off of the Parkway at mile marker 177. A few miles west on Route 58 revealed a gravel drive and a large orange sign announcing the bike camp to the left of the road. What Willville offers, like many of the motorcycle only campgrounds I've had the pleasure of visiting, is the company of others of the two-wheeled persuasion. In my experience, camaraderie can be in short supply in campgrounds frequented by RV's, families squeezed into minivans, or school buses packed with cub scouts. MC camps offer amenities that rarely are standard at conventional campgrounds, such as laundry facilities to accommodate motorcycle gear, some form of communal shelter, hot showers, and often times coffee and other beverages for a small donation.

Willville was more pleasant than most. From the moment I arrived and established my camp in the grass (no gravel tent pads here), the owner and other riders went out of their way to make me feel as if I'd been there for days. I parked my butt in one of the easy chairs under the shade of the central pavilion and didn't leave the camp for two days.

I managed to meet a few of the regulars as well as a couple others like myself just passing through. One oldtimer promised to send anyone who would drop him an email a list of all known gas stops within one mile of exiting the Parkway. He'd built the list over years of traveling the roadway himself and information gleaned from those passing by. I was tempted to stick around through the early part of the coming weekend to take part in a Ural rally that would call the camp home over about three days. From the stories my fellow campers told, riders of the unique Russian marque are as charismatic as their machines. But being a youngin' (not yet retired), quite a few more miles of Parkway beckoned before I had to turn the Beemer west toward Kentucky. I left on a Friday morning, heading south.

Not So Foregone Conclusion

In mid-March of this year, with the threat of late season snow still crisping the air, I loaded the Ninja with what looks to be all of my worldly possessions and set off toward the Appalachian mountains of East Tennessee. I'd been riding the public transit system around Louisville most of the winter, biding my time for the first shreds of Spring to visit the Ohio River valley. The forecast warned of rain, but on the morning I rolled the Ninja out of the garage, not a single cloud obscured the sun. The temperature stretched into the mid-60's and I'd put in for a week of leave from the trenches.

I was anxious to run the bike through it's gears. I spent the cold months tearing the cycle down in the garage, searching for electrical gremlins that had slowly infiltrated the system over years of use, and changing fluids, brakes, and tires. Having exposed the last of my gremlins to the light of scrutiny, I saddled up and pointed the bike south. Though the Ninja remained a mechanically sound machine, I knew that in all likelihood, this would be it's final extended trip. My wife and I had been discussing the purchase of a larger machine capable of carrying the two of us in comfort. I'd all but received her blessing to start the quest. I planned to allow the Kawasaki to live out it's leisure years with an honored spot in the garage and spirited weekend jaunts through the local countryside, while the new bike, whatever it would be, would become my workhorse and tourer de sport.

On this trip, I intended to do more camping than riding and decided to forgo the usual--and more comfortable, I might add--motorcycle campground in favor of a secluded spot along one of the old fire roads. Armed with my AAA Southeastern Campbook and Kentucky/Tennessee State Series map, I chose a primitive sight, aptly named North River Camp, along the North River tributary of the Tellico River. While it might appear that the road accessing the camp was inhospitable to Ninjas, the bike cruised along the packed gravel bed with little problem. I experimented with a system for packing food I adopted from Bob Wofter's Motorcycle Camping Made Easy in the hopes that I could limit my treks between wilderness and town. I wanted to immerse myself in the woods, to park the bike for extended periods and disappear along shadowed paths on foot. I couldn't accomplish that to as full an extent if I was forced to make the 24 mile round trip into Tellico Plains for food each day.

With the exception of a chilly ride down the Dragon and the Cherohala Skyway, I set up camp on a Saturday afternoon in fading light and remained in camp until the following Thursday. The tent, a Coleman Hooligan 3, held up against the damp and windy weather admirably. At one point, after a particularly long day of hiking along the ridge above my camp, I returned so thoroughly worn out that I crawled into the shelter after a quick bite to eat and only removed my shoes before sliding into the sleeping bag. As is usually the case, I awoke in the middle of the night needing to visit the facilities--in this case, a large rock just off to the left of camp. I heard the steady rhythm of rain on the fly. I made a hazy mental note to bring an empty quart canning jar with me on any subsequent trips for the purpose of indoor plumbing. What I stepped out into that Wednesday night was a full-on sleet storm, one of the chilliest trips to the loo that I can remember. The following morning, the day of my departure saw early morning temperatures below 20 degrees.

Altogether, I spent just under five full days camped in the Cherokee National Forest. I chased the river most of these days, at times strolling along it's edge on the gravel roads as the water carved it's way down out of the mountains. On more than one occasion, I followed it from above, walking paths that twisted along the ridge used by the Forest Service to battle fires. When time came to break camp and ride for home, I felt rested and tuned. Eventually, the temperatures reached the upper 50's, and despite a steady drizzle, I was comfortable motoring along in the thin rind of my rain suit.

I stopped in the town of Burnside, KY late Thursday evening. My neutral indicator light had been flickering for much of the afternoon. I waited all day for the rain to penetrate some hidden and excruciatingly difficult section of the wiring harness and short out the entire system. I decided not to push on in the dark for home and retired to a mom and pop motel at the edge of the town limits. Having ample time before check out the following morning, I lifted off the seat to see if I would be lucky enough to find the likely culprit without too much digging. As luck would have it, I'd picked up an unwelcome guest during the cold nights at camp while the bike sat idle.

Unfortunately, my visitor chewed through much of the wiring that controlled brake lights and some of the indicator lights. I doctored a quick repair with the electrical tape I brought, and suffered a prayer to the highway gods that I'd make it back to the cozy confines of my own garage before my ass caught fire. What followed this little trip was a week of tearing the computer out of it's bracket and splicing in new wiring to replace the meal my guest had made of the original. My experience as an electrician being what it is, I put on a pot of coffee each evening and some slow jazz and took my time with the repairs. All's well that end's well.

Six months later and the Ninja sits idle next to my new machine and waiting on me to replace it's now dead battery. Truth be told, the trip south probably squeezed the last of the good juice out the old cell anyway. I feel a little guilty when I walk into the garage, like a neglectful parent. I bought the 650 after my Harley was destroyed as an attempt to recapture the motorcycling of my youth. It delivered more than open roads and scenic vistas, more than speed and thrill. It allowed me to reclaim my sense of wonder. For that, I have only gratitude.

Transcendance

Sometimes life just shows up at the door with a bag of snakes and asks you to sort them out. In the process, the peripheries of life, even those we care about, often fall by the wayside. I find it hard to believe that its been nearly a year since I last posted, but that would seem to be the case. And as is the case with many writers, once the act of writing is neglected, a twisted sort of insecurity about writing keeps one from the act. And the snake eats it's own tail.

The past year's seen some significant changes in my life. My wife and I have relocated to Louisville. We decided to trade the country for the city. I'm fortunate to now have ample garage space rather than just a bare patch of off-level concrete driveway. The trade off comes at a small price. Instead of being two minutes from the nearest stretch of open highway, I must now navigate at least twenty minutes of speeding cars with drivers on cell phones, elephantine city buses, pedestrians materializing suddenly from between parked cars, and let's not forget the drunks weaving their way home from the bar and their latest failed pass at Kathy Sue Loudermilk. Still, the luxury of working indoors on a bike despite the weather dims all potential sacrifices. Did I mention that the garage has its own central air and heat, eight banks of fluorescent overhead lights, and 110 amp underground service?

I've added another horse to the stable as well. I think I'll postpone the introductions for a little while, in the interest of suspense. Rest assured, the Ninja's still pulling strong with 79K miles on the clock. Well, except for the discovery of a dead battery last Wednesday. Seems my blog hasn't been the only thing I've neglected.

I've spent more than a few days on the road over the past year, and a few nights motocamping in some of my favorite locations. I reintroduced myself, as well as acquainted my new machine, to the wonder that is the Blue Ridge Parkway. As soon as I sort out the photos, I'll give you a glimpse into some of those journeys.

Now that I'm settled in at the keyboard, I wonder what kept me such a long time away from this place. That nameless fear--and senseless, I might add--of writing dwindles with every tap and click. My wife has a signature that accompanies all her electronic correspondence, one I find most appropriate.

"If you hear a voice within you say "you cannot paint," then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced."
-- Vincent Van Gogh

Red River Gorgeous

Repairs completed and weather warming, I packed the tent and sleeping bag on the bike and took off for an overnight to the Red River Gorge Geological Area. Renowned for the well preserved sites of prehistoric peoples who lived and traveled through this area, the Gorge contains the largest concentration of natural rock shelters in the eastern United States. In more recent history, the Shawnee natives settled in this region prior to arrival of European explorers. The federal government established the geological area in 1974 by designating 29K acres and in 1976, the National Park Service declared the area to be a Natural National Landmark. The government established Clifty Wilderness in 1985, an eastern section of the gorge set aside for natural study and in which no modern development of any kind occurs. In 1993, U.S. Congress indicated that a 19.4 mile section of the Red River, after which the area is named, be set aside as a National Wild and Scenic River.

While there are many areas in which to camp in the Daniel Boone National Forest, camping in the Gorge itself is highly regulated. For instance, camping in the Clifty Wilderness requires leaving any motorized vehicle behind and setting out on foot. Established campgrounds, such as Koomer Ridge, lie just outside the boundary of the geological area and provide amenities such as flushing toilets and showers. I wanted something affording a little more solitude and decided to try John Swift's Lost Silver Mine Campground, a privately owned primitive ground located two or three miles inside the boundary on the bank of the river. Rt. 77 threads it's way through the Nada Tunnel, a 900 ft.-long, single lane road originally cut through the rock by hand and steam-powered drills, and is the only road looping through the area.

Preceding the tunnel and immediately after, Rt. 77 spans two-lanes and the tendency to open the throttle and play can be overwhelming. However, road conditions vary widely from mile to mile. Due to the large number of hikers and rock climbers accessing the Gorge, vehicles group on the shoulders of the road near trail heads, restricting the width of the road. These vehicles drag cinders from the roadside onto the tarmac and these patches of black gravel hide in the shade of the overhanging trees. As I entered the Gorge on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I rode through a group of Harley riders stopped by the roadside. A man and his wife traveling two-up rode through one such patch, lost control, and slid off the road. They dropped down a steep embankment into an area of boulders and trees along the river. Needless to say, the couple was not having as pleasant an afternoon as I. An ambulance was on it's way, but due to the limited access to the area, the couple were stretched on the grass of the embankment. A half an hour had passed between the crash and when I passed by. The twisted wreckage of the motorcycle glinted from amongst the rocks nearly twenty feet below the surface of the roadway.

Heavy rain inundated the Gorge and surrounding country the previous week. Sections of Rt. 15 running from just east of Lexington to the Gorge were closed due to flooding. This entire section of Rt. 77 cascaded down the hillside and into the river, tearing away the pavement and the trees. While the area surrounding the Gorge may seem like a motorcyclist's playground, the uninhabited sections are relatively small. Family farms and small towns dot these Appalachian foothills. It's not uncommon to encounter commercial traffic and farm machinery, and these industries take precedence in consideration for repair of roads.

I arrived at an empty campground and chose a sandy spot beneath shade trees toward the rear of the grounds. I carried a gravity fed filtration system with me and collected water from a stream feeding the Red River about 50 yards from my camp. Due to the flooding the previous week, drift wood swept down river and onto the bank piled against the upriver side of trees. With the temps ranging from 70 to 90 degrees during the day, I gathered enough dry firewood to last me through the evening and into the next morning. Forecasts for the region promised that overnight temperatures would drop into the upper 30's, what I consider to be perfect camping weather. I brewed a pot of coffee and settled down to read in the last of the golden, late afternoon light. A group of people canoeing the river passed through, stopping on the sandy bank to eat and take pictures.

I believed that I'd have the campground to myself as the sun set and the sky began to rust it's way toward twilight. As I was situating my supplies for easy access in the dark, the crunching of tires on the gravel access road alerted me to a group of guys approaching my campsite by car. While most folks visiting a campground are usually just searching for a little solitude of their own, I'm always a little leery of others when I'm camping alone. I've had the profound experience of being robbed, once at gunpoint, while camped in isolated areas.

The car parked in a spot on the edge of the small stream from which I'd drawn my drinking water. The four men in the car didn't exit their vehicle for a half an hour. When they emerged, smoke billowed out into the still evening followed by raucous fits of coughing. They'd paid for a trunk full of firewood, but by the time they'd finished getting high, full-on night shrouded the camp and made searching for kindling impossible without a flashlight. I started my own fire with flint and steel and a handful of dry pine needles. Great flashes of light blossomed amongst the trees as the men doused their pile of damp wood with charcoal lighter and gasoline. When it was burning well enough to shed a little light on the wooden cornhole game they were in the process of assembling, they took hiatus to complete the baking process. And then the fire went out. This process was repeated over a dozen times throughout the night.

They erected their tent in the dark with much cursing and fumbling. Due to the fire remaining unlit more than ignited, they positioned their car toward the game area and turned on the headlights and the stereo. The alcohol arrived. I considered my options. I could confront them, but with just myself and no weaponry, not the wisest of choices. At 130 pounds, I'm not perceived as much of a threat. Go figure. People become unpredictable and dangerous where mind and mood altering chemicals are concerned. The campground owners did not remain on the premises at night. Judging by the exorbitant rate of consumption, I decided to do nothing and await the inevitable. Their commotion reached it's peak around midnight and then quickly choked off. At least they remembered to turn off the car headlights.

In the morning, I emerged into a campground shrouded in mist. I rebuilt my fire from the smoldering embers of the previous night and brewed fresh coffee. My neighbors had crammed four adult men into a youth model tent that was now collapsed on one end, tent poles lying stretched out on the grass like a pair of splayed legs. Empty beer bottles were tossed in the undergrowth as far as 20 yards from their camp. I finished my coffee and was in the process of finding their ineptitude laughable when I paid a visit to the stream to rinse my dishes. One of the men had decided to evacuate his bowels sometime during the night in the shallow water; he'd left his soiled underwear behind as well. I found myself praying that they'd all come down with a raging case of pneumonia and croak.

Thankfully, I stayed only one night. I broke camp and jotted down the license plate number of the vehicle. Unfortunately, the ranger station was twenty miles away in Stanton and closed on Sunday. I spent the rest of the day visiting the area's stunning overlooks. I stopped for a home cooked breakfast at a hostel-style inn geared toward the rock climbers of the region before gassing up and heading north toward the horse country around Lexington.

Few things upset me as greatly as disrespect for the natural environment. I was taught as a boy that when I camp, I place myself in the care of that environment. I was educated to see my responsibility, my duty even, to ensure that those who come after me are not aware that I preceded them. This philosophy attracted me to motorcycling and eventually led me to unite these two passions. I pass through, just a flash of silver on twisting, country tarmac, and leave no trace, as water over the rocks, wind through tall grass.

Camping and Riding the Smokies, Part...Whatever

Last Spring, I began a series of posts to which I never returned. I'd envisioned a grand tour of the Smokies and surrounding environs all through the summer with episodic posts detailing my traveling exploits. My plan to supplement these ramblings with picturesque shots of mountain highway ultimately fell through. Instead of a summer throwing the bike into languorous curves, I spent a week in the hospital and another month in outpatient therapy, my vacation time whittled down to nothing more than splinters.

So, I'm returning to my grand vision now, a little more humble in scope. Better late than never, right? Well, maybe. My brief foray into the eastern Tennessee mountains nearly ended in disaster and disaster of my own making at that. But I'll get to that a little later.

From my earliest days of touring, back when I darted about the state on a 440 KZ, I preferred motorcycle camping to staying in motels. At first, camping was simply a matter of necessity. A $50 motel room meant less money for gas and, ultimately, a shorter period of time on the road. Spending $8 for a campsite allowed me to range farther afield. Then there are those times when I've paid nothing for a spot to throw a tent up after a day cruising lazy back roads. I've camped behind abandoned buildings, in vacant lots, and in farmer's fields, with their permission of course. For a starving college student on a shoestring budget, these situations are a dream come true. My motel experiences have always been dubious. I've rented rooms for $25 dollars and been treated like royalty. On the flip side, I've forked over $90 dollars and been ready to pack up in the middle of the night and slink away like a bad dog. By contrast, rarely have I had an unpleasant stay in a $30 dollar nylon dome from Target, and the experiences have always been memorable. I woke up in the middle of the night at Carter Caves State Park on a humid Wednesday in late June several summers ago to watch (and smell) a pair of skunks knock a plastic box containing donuts off of trees the next site to mine. Which just goes to show, all creatures love donuts.

In my mind, motorcycle touring and camping share many of the same traits. So many similarities, in fact, that the idea of staying in a motel after a long dusty day in the saddle, feels alien by comparison. Motorcycles embody freedom. Some would say freedom incarnate, really. The experience of freedom in the magnitude that motorcycling rewards demands vulnerability. As riders we're subject to the unpredictability of the elements. We're at the mercy of other vehicles, as well as the whims of the idiots who pilot them. A bad breakdown in a remote area often means hitching a ride or, more likely, a long walk to the next service station. Crashing, God forbid, usually results in a trip to the hospital. Our gear sits in plain view. I believe motorcyclists offer more fox-hole prayers than any other population. Riding into Atlanta during rush hour I recall myself saying, "Please, God, if I live through this, I promise I'll never do anything this stupid again."

These "drawbacks", as most motorists would call them, generate our solidarity. Stranded by the roadside with the whistle of a punctured front tire for company, cars whizzing by, its always comforting to hear the stumbling gait of a motorcycle engine gearing down as its rider prepares to slide onto the gravelly shoulder to offer, if nothing else, moral support. Motorcycle camping enhances this experience, indeed, can sustain the sensation indefinitely. At least, as long as one is willing to go without a hot shower.

I sometimes prefer the solitude of remote camping, as I described in Part One, to mirror a 450 mile day alone on the bike. For my latest excursion, I chose the possibility of a social venue by camping at Hunt's Lodge Motorcycle Resort. The southern Appalachian mountains are unique for motorcyclists in the respect that these types of campgrounds are plentiful. Hunt's Lodge offers sleeping cabins or free-range camping, hot showers, coffee, and the pleasure of company as a group of old road dogs relax around the fire pit swapping lies. In spite of the amenities, the spirit of freedom and the sensation of vulnerability required to sustain it, are preserved.

My suggestion is to begin slow and inexpensively. A $30 tent from Target will keep you just as dry during a thunderstorm as a $400 tent from your local plush outfitter. Which is to say, you'll be wet. Take extra cash with you for food in case that state-of-art cook stove refuses to light in the wind. Or in case you throw it into the woods in the dark and can't reacquire it. Buy a sleeping pad; its less expensive than a chiropractor. Don't skimp when it comes to sleeping bags. Make sure your cell phone is fully charged; plugs do not grow naturally in the woods. Above all, experiment. Take a brief trip to somewhere close by with several options in case things don't go as planned. This is a good way to test gear, to find out what actually works well. When you're sitting in the tent pondering what on earth possessed you to purchase that combination can opener-signal whistle-flash light, you won't regret as much tossing it in the dumpster on your way out than you will if you're deep in the forest and realize that this amazing device took up the same same space as a drybox of matches.

While camping at the Blue Ridge Motorcycle Campground several summers ago, a BMW rider approached me and said, "I see that you're as compact as I am," meaning that I had developed over many years of stupidity, luck, and trial and error the ability to carry everything I need for several days on the road with limited need for human interaction. I couldn't help but smiling. That line from Spaceballs crossed my mind, "I see that your Schwartz is as big as mine."

Oh, and don't forget to enjoy yourself. See you in the woods.

Why Let Sleeping Dragons Lie?

The famous US 129 has reopened to traffic from the North Carolina side of the highway. According the article from Clutch & Chrome, motorcyclists may enter the corrider at Robbinsville, NC and turn back about two miles before the rock fall. Be careful out there, folks. I imagine that with the road only accessible from one direction, emergency services will have a more difficult job extracting injured riders.

A Cheer for the Cherohala

Prior to my departure for the Cherokee National Forest, a fellow rider from work asked me what I was going to do there with the Dragon closed. I had to explain to him, with a more than a little sarcasm, that other roads do wander through that region of the country. Case in point is the beautiful Cherohala Skyway, a 36 mile highway bridging North Carolina to Tennessee. It crosses through two national forests, the Cherokee and the Nantahala.

Where the Dragon epitomizes the technical, riders on the Cherohala can expect solitude and some of the most profound scenic vistas to be found on any road in the region. During months like March, weather on the Cherohala can be unpredictable, and I've found that the best way to approach riding not just the Cherohala but the entire region is to dress for a wide variety of conditions. Being a fan of textiles, this usually isn't a problem. Temperatures in the Tellico River valley were near 75 degrees by noon the Saturday I started my climb into the mountains. Temperatures near the Cherohala's highest points favored snow. Even in the valley during the early morning hours, the temps can drop into the freezing range.

What I appreciate most about riding east Tennessee during the early part of the season is the lack of crowds. While I don't mind sharing stories by the fire with a few of my fellow travelers, the last thing I desire while trying replenish my spirit and take in the view is to constantly glance into my mirrors for the next rocket-boy attempting to race his way up my exhaust pipe. The Cherohala offers a clean ribbon of tarmac uninterrupted by commercial traffic, the glitz and glare of billboards, and stoplights. Plenty of pulloffs provide opportunity for photographs and space to stop and allow faster riders to proceed without the risk of dodging into oncoming traffic.

Home to the Over-the-Hill tribes of the Cherokee prior to the arrival of white settlers

The Over-the-Hill Cherokee were so named due to the fact that this was the terrain one needed to cross in order to make contact with the natives

The natives treated the peaks and valleys of east Tennessee and western North Carolina as sacred. It only takes one pass through the Cherohala's sultry curves to connect with that sense of spirit, one moment to fall in love with this long, quiet highway.

The Dragon is Dead, Long Live the Dragon!

I recently returned from a brief foray to the Cherokee National Forest, one of my favorite places on earth to ride and camp. While the entire area serves as a Mecca for motorcyclists, one road draws riders from all over the world more than any other in the region. US 129, named the Tail of the Dragon, actually refers more specifically to an eleven mile stretch of highway sporting 318 curves spanning east Tennessee and western North Carolina. The road crosses through Deal's Gap, a pass in the mountains likely named after white settlers, but used by Cherokee natives centuries before the arrival of white explorers.

A rock slide occurred on March 14 and Tennessee authorities closed the infamous Dragon at the state line on March 17. Efforts are underway to reopen the road, at least from the Deal's Gap Motorcycle Resort to the area of the landslide.

Twist of the Wrist

I've recently realized that I'm not well connected to any form of motorcycle community. When I examine my own riding history and style, I find I've been that way most of my riding life. I usually ride alone. A benefit to solo travel includes being able to stack on as many miles as my skinny butt can handle without having to worry about my fellow riders stopping 300 miles before I'm ready. I've always written off some of the drawbacks to my anti-social tendencies. I'm talking about the loneliness that only a lone rider feels standing at 5,000 ft. on the Cherohala Skyway in March watching the clouds sift through the skeletal trees. Cheery, ain't it. Truth be told, I've never much cared for the company of other human beings, even my own kind. Riding the Ninja 650 doesn't exactly attract those motorcyclists in whose company I'd genuinely feel welcome. Most riders mistake it for a sport bike when it's really a standard with some plastic for show. As a result, I frequently draw the attention of the squids, whose vacant heads annoy me, who can not exercise restraint in spinning that yarn about how they crashed their precious GSXR-750 on the interstate while pulling a wheelie at 90 mph and can't wait to try the stunt again next week.

"Just as soon as I get another bike," they say, eyeing my 650 in a way that always makes my heart drop a little.

Another disadvantage to my lack of communion with the motorcycling general populace is that I often miss events like the one night only opening of Twist of the Wrist: Louisville Art on Motorcycle Culture. It just so happens that while screwing off....err....surfing the net at work last Thursday, I came across an article in the cyber version of the Louisville Eccentric Observer detailing the opening of the show and the lives of some of the artists exhibiting. The motorcyclists and artists interviewed for the piece described their love of vintage machines in particular. Having owned several quirky old bikes myself and cultivated a wallflower's interest in two-wheeled culture, I decided that this was something that I had to check out.

Now, I'm not going to wax poetic on the virtues of modern art or the reflection of society such art provides. I just don't have it in me and, frankly, I really don't care. Vintage bike society intrigues me while vintage bike artist society I find somewhat aloof and unreachable. While I'm not one of those riders to sit around and discuss the shaping effects of motorcycles on rebellion in our modern culture, I can appreciate a stunning photograph of a laced wheel strung with cobwebs as the machine to which it's attached slowly rusts into the forgotten ground of a motorcycle salvage yard. It appeals to the lonewolf in me. Sarah Lyon, a female rider, mechanic, and photographer, contributed the most stunning piece in the show, her bronzed pair of leather motorcycle harness boots, which witnessed 30,000 miles of Sarah's travels on two wheels. All of the small imperfections immortalized in those boots spoke to me in a way that reached past my intellect and kicked me somewhere in my gut.

And even this anti-social got a chance to practice his communication skills a little bit. Here's a few photos from outside the show that capture one of those rare moments when my keepers let me out from under the stairs.

Here I am discussing a Honda C350 project with another attendee

Gives new meaning to the term Iron Butt

Assorted scooter trash discussing the shaping effects of motorcycles on rebellion in our modern culture

In the end, for me, it's always about the bikes

Camping and Riding the Smokies, Part One

On April 2 of this year, I squeezed a few days out of a hectic work schedule to ride into the Cherokee National Forest for a few days. When traveling by motorcycle, I'm always partial to camping by bike. It's a bit more complicated than riding up to the motel and checking in, but the rewards measure out in my enhanced peace of mind and sense of self-sufficiency. I took few photos of the ride to the area. I got a late start and worried that once I hit the mountains, I'd lose the light while trying to find a suitable campsite. However, I generally follow Route 127 south through Kentucky and into Tennessee. Route 68 branches off and passes through Tellico Plains, my usual entry point into the Smokey Mountain area.

A view of Tennessee
State Route 68.

Options for camping while riding the Smokies vary depending on the level of comfort the rider desires. Motorcycle campgrounds like Hunt's Lodge located just south of Tellico Plains on the aforementioned route 68, offer amenities sometimes lost in more primitive camping, such as hot showers and laundry facilities. Usually, I opt for one of these campgrounds and there are several to choose from in the region. They provide a more secure setting for leaving gear unattended and companionship when returning from a long day in the saddle.

I wanted more solitude than usual and chose a primitive location at Spivey Cove, a campground situated along the Tellico River. The location is over 15 miles east into the mountains from Tellico Plains. To my knowledge, there is no gas or cell phone service available once exiting Tellico Plains. Following the signs for the Cherohala Skyway will lead to Tellico River Road on which Spivey Cove campground is positioned. River Road, a single lane of asphalt, winds along the valley against the flow of the water. It's easy to let the eyes wander from the road for long stretches, but the road is shared by fisherman, kayakers, hikers, and fellow motorcyclists. Missing a curve could result in a deadly fall into the river.

River Road and the Tellico River

The road leading into Spivey Cove

Being the middle of the week, the campground hosted no occupants other than myself. I chose as remote a spot as possible relative to the campground entrance, a level shelf on the side of a hill encircled by pines. While the Cove had pit toilets, there were no showers or plumbing carrying drinking water. The only source of water, a small stream running down the mountain to feed the Tellico River. The nearest ranger station was 12 miles to the west near where River Road joins the Skyway. I arrived with enough light to set up the tent, a $30 purchase from Wal-Mart, by the way, and to gather a little firewood before settling down with a cup of coffee, a book, and the breath of the wind through the trees.

Unloading the machine

Setting up the tent

Home sweet home, at least for the next three days

TRIUMPHant

Because it was my birthday on the First, I spent the afternoon at my local Triumph Motorcycle dealer, Commonwealth Motorcycles. One of my colleagues clued me in to the fact that Commonwealth was offering demo rides on select models of the Triumph line. All I needed was a clean driver's license, a helmet (and other gear I deemed necessary for my safety), and the willingness to swear that I wouldn't break any laws, including the posted speed limit. So the sales team scanned my driver's license, and I signed my name on the dotted line, with my fingers crossed behind my back, of course. I spent a small chunk of my afternoon tooling around downtown Louisville astride the Triumph Street Triple.

Derived from the Daytona 675, the mill of the Street Triple has been tuned to provide riders with more mid-range usability than it's race-bred counterpart. After learning to negotiate with the touchy throttle, I exited the parking lot and, with a quick twist, vanished down East Jefferson St. The exhaust note is throaty with the bike at a standstill but let out the reigns a bit and the engine winds out with the same high-pitched whistle found in any Japanese crotch rocket. Sitting on the machine, I leaned farther forward than I'm normally accustomed and the position, though a "standard" one, felt awkward. The mirrors made me feel claustrophobic mounted as they were on the bars and not on any bodywork. All of my misgivings while astride the bike in the parking lot evaporated when I took to the street. The Triple feathers through corners, light and airy in it's handling. Effortless snicking through the transmission had me checking the digital readout to be sure which gear I entered, and the bike yeilded few if any flat spots. The brakes drag the machine down from speed with precision. I could actually see something other than my shoulders in the mirrors!

I circled through the east end of town in what I considered to be a long loop. Lifting the visor upon my return to the dealership, there wasn't need to ask whether I enjoyed the ride or not. My grin said it all. After describing my route to the mechanic, he simply nodded and said, "You sure weren't gone very long."

Long Time, No Post

We've had an eventful February here in northern Kentucky, first the ice storm followed by the wind storm. Both catastrophies were accompanied by loss of power. At one point, I was unable to make the drive to work for three consecutive days. Normally, I'd relish the idea, except when it's only 35 degrees inside my house. Throughout all of this, brief windows offering the opportunity to ride have presented themselves. When the sun peeled away the gray overhang and the snow dwindled to a less than treacherous accumulation, I'd fire up the 650, plug in the Widder vest, and cruise down to the local Waffle House for a steaming cup of java.

Plunked down at the counter, with a little Patsy Cline whirling out of the juke box, I'd dream of the coming spring and the empty highway. That's one thing that a long, cold winter's good for is dreaming. All ready, I'm thinking of the twisting asphalt paths through the Smokies. I'm fantasizing about that perfect campsite on the edge of the lake where I can watch the fish flash in the sun before dropping with a plop back into the water. Most important, I'm wishing for a machine with the pre-season maintenance completed: new rear tire and brake pads, new filter elements for fuel line and air cleaner, oil and filter changed, spark plugs swapped out, coolant changed, valve adjustment completed.

I guess I can sit and sigh over the vision of spring yet to come, or I can drag my lazy butt off the stool at the awful waffle and hunker down in the driveway with the toolbox. Despite the lack of practicalities completed, I've put in my request with the employer for a little time free from the trenches during the first week of April. Now if I can just get the inside of my head and the outside in the driveway to meet in the middle, I'll be a contented man.

Feeling Blue

Forgot to post the pics of my ride up the Blue Ridge Parkway this summer. Better late than never, I suppose. With the winter weather closing in, I find myself reflecting on the longer rides through gorgeous country I've taken over the previous year. Here's a few shots from the Ridge taken during late June 2008.

Top of the World

Looking Glass Mountain

Shadow on the Mountain

Grandfather Mountain

Any port in the Storm