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.

Gateway to the Gorge

Over the weekend, I took the Beemer on a short excursion to the Red River Gorge Geological Area located to the southeast of Lexington, KY. I was hoping to catch the last of the fall foliage. Traffic through the area was minimal. The temperature may have had something to do with it. In the sunshine, the temps rarely crossed out of the upper 40's. At night, they dipped into the high 30's. While the leaves have passed their peak, enough of the fire of Autumn still clings to the branches to make the ride worthwhile.

The Nada Tunnel runs an east/west route into the heart of the Gorge. Originally cut through the rock with steam-powered drills, dynamite, and hand tools, the tunnel was completed in 1911 and was the only through way to the Gorge's interior. The tunnel was designed to accommodate 25 and 35 ton locomotives used to haul timber from the interior to the saw mill at Clay City. The Clay City mill, at one time, was the largest in the eastern United States.

According to local lore, only one man was killed during the construction of the railway tunnel. Apparently, he attempted to thaw several sticks of frozen dynamite by the heat of his campfire and well. . .

The tunnel is 900' long, around 20' in height, and 15' wide. The excavation crews began the project in 1910 and completed it in a little over a year in 1911. Given the tools of the times, the tunnel is a marvel of early 20th century engineering.

As a gateway into the Red River Gorge, the Nada Tunnel prepares the eye for the stunning vistas of the rock formations and blaze of Autumn color that lies beyond. The valley in which the Red River flows has been home to human beings for over 14,000 years; the earliest evidence of people living in the region can be found in the artifacts they left behind in cliff shelters. As I threaded my way along the narrow road under fading trees, listening to the river shush it's way through the valley, I wondered what I would leave behind for others to find. Perhaps only an echo of my passing, lone horse and it's rider.

Riding the Ridge, Part One

In the early part of July 2011, I decided to test the BMW's worthiness on the road and embarked on a journey that would ultimately take me down the Blue Ridge Parkway from it's northern to southern terminus. The first day of the trip I spent on the interstate heading north through Cincinnati and Columbus where I turned west on interstate 70 through Wheeling and into Western Pennsylvania. After spending a few days at my father's house, I turned the bike south through Maryland and into northern Virginia and Shenandoah National Park's Skyline Drive.

I slept that first night in the park at Mathew's Arm, a campground positioned at about the 22 mile mark along the Drive. I wish I could say that the stay was pleasant, but the gnats along the parkway must have been holding their annual world conference. The winged pests were in such thick numbers that all of my photos along Skyline Drive contained the dark flecks of their pulpy little bodies. While the bike was in motion, the windscreen deflected most the bugs, but as soon as all forward momentum ceased, they descended on you in a horde. Stopping to converse with other riders at one of the plentiful and otherwise beautiful overlooks was always accompanied by constant waving of limbs.

My first day along the parkway was spent in the good graces of the weather gods. I always seemed to be where the rain was not. At one particular turn off, I was standing in the sunshine when another rider heading north stopped to inform me that the sky had opened just a few miles south and a deluge had commenced. He advised me to use caution; it was raining hard enough that he was having trouble navigating. When I resumed travel, I never encountered anything further south than wet pavement, the vapor already rising into the hot July air in thin wisps.

The storms diminished the gnat population. Even being near the tumultuous weather provided a relief from their incessant buggery. I have yet to be able to explain the reason behind their disappearance, but the gnats just ceased to exist the further south I traveled. They didn't gradually dwindle away; they just stopped altogether. I don't know if this was caused by weather change, elevation, a change in habitat. Whatever the reason, I was glad to be rid of them. It would mean more agreeable environment while off the Beemer.

I'm always surprised at the mini wasteland accompanying the transition from Skyline Drive and the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway. It appears as if there was once a gas station and perhaps a small hotel just at the convergence of these two roads. They've been abandoned for years, just shells left from a different time. I always mean to stop and snap a few photos of the place, but never manage it when I pass by. It still strikes me as one of the loneliest places in the world. It's the type of emptiness created by distant, fading memory.

Skyline Drive, according to the guard manning the gate upon my arrival, was undergoing maintenance, mostly repaving. Much of the blacktop looked fresh enough to worry me in areas where the pavement was wet. I suspect that the rider who warned me of heavy rain earlier in the day experienced oil skimming the road surface following such a sudden downpour. The speed limits along the Drive demand a more sedate pace than I normally prefer, but with wet areas and fresh paving, I kept the RT only slightly over the mandated limits.

The Blue Ridge Parkway offers numerous points for quiet reflection. During my first day of riding, I passed through the highlands of northern Virginia on my way to my second camp in the lower elevations of the Virginia midlands. The country isn't the only thing that changes. Life, along with the accents of the people I had the good fortune to meet, slowed as I rode south. Toward my second stopping point, grits began to appear on the menus of the small town restaurants in which I sought respite from the heat. As I turned off the Parkway in the late afternoon, I could feel my spirit leaning West like a compass. Somewhere across the misty ridges of the Appalachians, the old bones of the mountains tumbled down into the foothills of the Bluegrass State. But the high elevations of North Carolina awaited before I would turn the bike toward home. For now, it was time to camp.

Kein Kraut für Mich, Bitte

I spent most of the month of April 2011 searching the Cycle Trader ads for used Kawasaki Concours 1000's. I'd decided after some discussion with my wifey that a dealership bike would be preferable. We learned that we might still stand a chance of financing a later model through Kawasaki. Therefore, I limited my selection to bikes ranging from 2004 to 2006. What I located was a 2004 near Canton Ohio. The dealership was a 350 mile trip from my residence and I had the weekend to do it.

I called the dealer. They had the bike and assured me that it was a remarkable specimen of the late model variety. I asked them about the price (around $3500 with under 20K on the meter) and they indicated they'd be willing to negotiate provided I could slap down a significant down payment. I could. I called on a Friday and told them to expect me on Saturday morning.

I saddled the Ninja late Friday night and shot north up the interstate. I left at around 9:00 p.m. and slid into the parking lot of a motel just shy of Columbus at 11:30 p.m. This was one of those trips born out of necessity more than the pleasure of riding or travel. No pictures on this run. The motel was attached to a night club and had several abandoned gas stations located just across the road. When I inquired about the room rate at the desk, the receptionist asked in return, "How much you got?" I told her I had 30 bucks. "Sold," she said. The water in the shower smelled of cabbage, and my mattress had a blood stain on one side. In the morning, I turned in my key to a bleary-eyed young man at the desk. He asked me if I wanted a cup of complimentary coffee. Remembering the scent of the water the night before, I declined and rejoined the flow of traffic northbound on the interstate. I'm still not sure the hotel actually exists; if I went by that particular spot off the road, would I only find an empty gravel lot and the haunting smell of leafy green vegetables?

I reached Canton by mid morning and faced some disturbing realizations. The dealership was having a Triumph open house that was being coupled with some sort of radio show. The place was crawling with people. I guess I'd hoped that I'd have a rather pressure free shopping experience. The Concours in question turned out not to be a 2004 but a 2002, and was in decidedly less than pristine condition; much of the right lower fairing was crushed and badly bondoed back together. The 2002 had over 30K on the clock rather than under 20K. When I asked about the 2004, I was told that the particular bike about which I was inquiring (and had received photos of, mind you) had been sold the previous week.

Me: "What about a test ride on the '02?"

Dealer: "Can't do that."

Me: "I was told a test ride on the '04 wouldn't be a problem."

Dealer: "That bike's been sold."

I was self-consciously aware of the odor of cabbage that wafted from me now and again.

Disgusted, I left and rode through a light drizzle the remaining miles between Canton, OH and West Alexander, PA to visit with my father, cutting across the northern panhandle of West Virginia in the process. I spent that evening visiting with my father and set off down Ohio Route 7 the following morning. Route 7 follows the Ohio River all the way to eastern Kentucky and remains one of my favorite roads to travel. I picked up U.S. 60 in Kentucky and stayed with it into Louisville. With the detours, the trip stretched nearly a 1000 miles in the span of 48 hours. By the time I arrived at home, my anger toward the dealership had abated. I imagine the older model Concours don't receive much prestige in dealer's eyes these days, especially in light of a Triumph open house.

I opted out of making any further 1000 mile weekends, and wifey and I discussed the purchase of a motorcycle from a local dealer. This meant that a Concours 1000 was out of the question, but opened the door for the purchase of a used Concours 14. There were several of these machines, mostly '08's, available at reasonable prices from the local dealerships. Maybe a Check Engine light wouldn't be such a bad thing.

On the way home after work the next week, feeling a little discouraged, I stopped by the local Harley dealer on Arthur Street here in Louisville. I still enjoy looking at Harley's, the Sportsters in particular, and some of the new models really stir the soul. While I've moved past the Harley stage of my life for the time being, I can still appreciate their machines. There isn't another cruiser manufacturer out there that does what HD does as successfully or as consistently. And I've always admired their sales strategies, just not enough to purchase another one.

HD Sportster Forty-Eight

But the important detail of this little story is that HD of Louisville is also BMW Motorcycles of Louisville. I hadn't even considered a Beemer as an option. I test rode an R1200RT several years ago and found them absolutely fantastic, just what I'd always wanted in a touring rig. Plenty of power, mostly on the low to mid-range. Great suspension, actually a marvel of the motorcycling universe. Lots of nifty little doodads like heated grips and electric windscreens and powerlet adapters all as standard equipment. Wanted one until, that is, I happened to glance at the price tag. I figured that I'd have to sell one of my kidneys on the black market to afford a new model and banished the idea of owning one from my mind. In the meantime, the HD dealership had acquired the BMW franchise and were now carrying a wide variety of used models by the Bavarian manufacturer. While I went into the dealership to drown my sorrows in leather and chrome, I emerged with this.

So now I've officially sipped the Kool-Aid. But as I discovered in my recent expedition down the Blue Ridge parkway, this 2004 BMW R1150RT more than lived up the mystique of the Marque, and as far as I'm concerned, the reputation is well-deserved. After climbing off the Ninja following my 1000 mile weekend, my spirit felt refreshed but my spine wondered why I ever bothered to own a motorcycle in the first place. A thousand miles on the Beemer and I'm ready to stop for lunch. Well, dinner anyways, and hold the cabbage please.

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.

Ride to Work Day

Tomorrow marks the 19th annual Ride to Work Day. During any given day of the week, motorcycles and mopeds comprise only 200,000 of the over eighty million vehicles people use to commute to work. On the third Monday of June, however, the number of motorized two-wheeled transport used during the commute rises remarkably. Considering that over eight million motorcycles and mopeds are registered in the United States, we have a lot of room to make a sound impression.

We illustrate that we can conserve energy and space. Most motorcycles consume far less fuel and produce fewer harmful emissions than even conservative compact cars. Commuting by motorcycle demonstrates efficiency in the way motorcycles convert that fuel to usable power. Only the world's fastest cars--and expensive, might I add--can produce the range of power available even to motorcycles in the 600cc bracket, and few of those cars, if any, claim the fuel consumption rates of their two-wheeled counterparts. Motorcycles can be parked just about anywhere. In the parking garage where I house the Ninja during my time at work, it shares a small out of the way corner with a Honda Helix. The space these two vehicles occupy isn't really a space, but rather, one of those lost corners completely unusable by even the smallest cars. Though only two of us have recently used this space, practice a little judiciousness and the space could easily manage two additional machines.

With the spill in the Gulf of Mexico pouring tens of thousands of gallons of oil into the sea each week, I can think of no finer demonstration of outrage than to utilize a method of transportation that has the potential to hit Big Oil where it can do the most damage. We can hit them in their pocket books. Granted, one day will do little to alter the grand scheme. My hope remains that if a fraction of riders taking to the asphalt tomorrow commute again the following day and then the day after that, the slow trickle toward a more permanent shift begins. While we're a long way from being free of the consumption of fossil fuel, we can find cleaner and more responsible methods of consumption.

There has been much finger pointing lately regarding just who is to blame for the Gulf spill catastrophe. Protesters call for President Obama to take action and Tony Hayward's head on a silver platter. Truth be told, if we really want to see who's to blame, we should all take a hard look at ourselves in the mirror before slipping our helmets over our heads in the morning. We create the demand and only we have the power to do anything about it. Ride safe. Ride free. Ride wisely.

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.

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.

Rider on the Storm

While on the way home last week, I took shelter from this storm under the awning of a used car dealership on Highway 60 east of Louisville. I glimpsed the radar prior to leaving work and knew that a break in the front would allow me access to the northeast corridor of Interstate 71. Assessing that I had fair chance of making it to the house relatively dry, I pulled over to don the yellow crossing-guard-of-doom rain gear and wait on the nastiness to grind it's way southeast.

One of the maxims that I've come to appreciate in motorcycling regards expecting the unexpected. In general, this philosophy keeps a rider alive and is epitomized in such statements as "cover your controls" and "ride as if you're invisible". Being prepared for and riding in adverse weather exemplifies this practice. I haven't traveled without some form of rain gear on the bike in over a decade; the lesson came hard-learned. In my early twenties, I rode out of Owensboro, KY for a trip of about a hundred miles or so. When I left my apartment, the sun was shining, a light breeze blew the scent of drying tobacco through the woods and fields of southern Indiana, and the temperature barely crested 70. By the day's end, a storm system moved into the area and it started to rain. With only my leathers, I soaked to my skin quickly. The temperature dropped into the lower 60's. I discovered that the body can go hypothermic when wet in as comfortable a temperature as 60 degrees. Add in the wind chill factor and I'd slapped together a receipe for a near-death experience. The resulting pneumonia could have been prevented, in all likelyhood, by a thin layer of plastic.

During a lull in the storm last week, I decided to make a break for the interstate and try to stay ahead of the next wave of thunderstorms. What I hadn't counted on, indeed, what no one factors into the equation, was an accident blocking the north bound lanes of I-71. Before I could ride to the shelter of the rest area and nearest exit, the rain poured down. By the time I climbed off the bike and slouched in under the overhang of the area's vending pavilion, I could not longer see through the sheets of water and blinding lightning. The thunder beat my chest like a drum.

But I was dry, thanks to the thin, plastic rind of my rain suit. And reasonably safe under the roof of the shelter housing the vending machines. Motorcycling fosters patience. Ride long enough and far enough and the weather will turn against the rider, no matter how righteous his karma. The other lessen I learned during that sodden ride years ago was to listen to my gut. If my head busied itself with figuring routes around the storm and my heart stroked my ego with how tough I would be for motoring through a tempest to the far side, then heed the voice of caution, located somewhere between my lungs and my balls, and pull over. Prop myself up between some vending machines among the stray cigarette butts, close my eyes, and bask in the soft spray of hard rain.

It's Raining; It's Pouring....

Ride to Work day transformed into squelch to home day and kicked off a week laden with spotty but dangerous weather. The Ohio River Valley witnessed brief but powerful storms this week. The one we experienced this morning was enough to knock out the power at work. I've had to don the crossing guard of doom rain gear more than once this week.

Ride to Work Day

Today is the 18th annual Ride to Work Day. In the past, the day was observed in July. A change was made to a Monday in June in order to better promote the idea of motorcycles for transport to the general public. This year, Ride to Work Day is endorsed by the Federation Internationale de Motorcyclisme in the international community.

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

Preview...Postview...Whatever

Back in August, my wife and I attended a special screening of Long Way Down, the two-hour director's cut, in a local theater. Unfortunately, I wasn't a subscriber to the channel on which the entire series aired starting later that same evening. I thought I'd post the preview from that series here. Enjoy.

Long Way...Through?

As a big fan of the original book and television series, Long Way Round, I was excited to learn that Ewan and Charlie planned another epic adventure. This time, the pair planned to ride from the point farthest north in Scotland to the furthest point south in Africa, a trip of nearly 15K miles. They rode in the shadow of the pyramids, cruised along the Nile, and dodged elephants in the deserts of Namibia. The two visited several charities throughout the trip, including Unicef and Riders for Health, an organization of motorcycle riders delivering medications to those without access to those medications throughout rural Africa. The friends stopped in Rwanda to visit the sites of horrific genocide. As usual, they sampled the cuisine of each country through which they passed.

So why am I not as satisfied with Long Way Down as I remember being when finishing my read of Round? I picked up and read Round as a paperback before I watched the TV series. When I finally purchased and viewed the actual video series, I was doubly amazed with the magnitude of the journey. With Long Way Down, I'm already aware that the series for television exists. The book, constructed in the same manner as Round, that is, Ewan and Charlie alternate as the narrator of their tale, served merely to whet my appetite for what I believe will undoubtedly be another monumental piece of motorcycle film making.

I cite only minor annoyances with the book. At one point, Ewan's wife, Eve, visited the pair and traveled with them for about one week. The book's narrator's continue unaltered in their telling of their tale, though they separated following Eve's arrival. I would like to have seen entries in the book by Eve, as she becomes such an integral part of the story for a short while. While the pair do little to acknowledge the effect of Eve's arrival on the overall mood of the journey, it's clear that she acts as a sort of antagonist against the two friends. Permitting Eve to use her own voice as a narrator could perhaps have diminished her standing as an outsider. It also would have created structurally in writing what occurred thematically in the book.

Though I found the book to be a slower read than the first time I experienced Ewan and Charlie's writing, Long Way Down's worth the read. In the least, it peaks the interest and may act as a primer for the video series. I spent most of this last weekend watching the Round series again and hoping that Long Way Down would live up to the legacy of it's predecessor. What I truly enjoy about the books and the series is that it steers readers and viewers away from the stereotype of the biker as an American outlaw. We can ride long and hard, be free in the wind whether on this continent or another, sleep under the open sky, and still retain our sense of compassion for one another and the human race in general.

Shifting Gear

Time really can get away from me. I was trolling around some of my favorite forums and reading blog entries when I realized that I haven't posted to my own blog in over a month. And a lot has happened in the previous thirty days to post a few updates. I put the Ninja in the shop for a few days...well, a few days transformed into about three weeks while I waited for a valve cover gasket to arrive from Jupiter or some place. I replaced the rear tire. I chose another Bridgestone Battleaxe as I'm drawing between 12 and 15K miles from each one. The valves were adjusted, the air filter replaced, fuel filter renewed, rear brake pads installed, and oil and filter changed. Despite the wait for parts, the bike was returned to me by the shop dialed in and running as if I'd just ridden off the showroom floor.

I finally got around to replacing my aging Joe Rocket Ballistic 4.0 jacket with the Motoboss 3/4 textile jacket in the photo above. The Rocket leaked at each vent and, I believe, some of the seams. Given that the Ballistic was over three years old and had seen nearly 50K miles in weather ranging from light rain to snow, I figured it worthy of retirement. I'm pleased with the Motoboss thus far. I've had the occasion to be caught out in heavy rain while wearing it and wasn't disappointed with the quality of rain resistance. Waterproofing has always been tricky at best when it comes to motorcycle gear.

"Is it waterproof," I've asked.

"That depends," is the response. "Waterproof like light drizzle...yes. Waterproof like a midget dipped in liquid latex...no."

I'm pleased to announce that the salesman for my Alpinestars boots was indeed correct. Over the previous month and then some, the stiffness gradually faded away. These boots are indeed some of the most comfortable road boots I've ever had the fortune in which to stomp around. While not at the stage of a comfortable well-worn pair of sneakers, I'm pleased that I can spend the day in them and not pull them off in the evening nursing blisters. Did I mention they're Italian. Oh, yes....Italian.

I spent a few days at the beginning of April camped in the Cherokee National Forest of eastern Tennessee. I'll post the photos I've taken later, including some shots from the Dragon by Killboy. I met a variety of individuals in the few days I camped and rode the area. The hospitality shown to motorcyclists in the region always amazes me. Whether I've visited in the height of summer or during the birth of the season as I did this most recent trip, I'm never disrespected by the locals. My thoughts inevitably spin to planning the next ride into breathtaking Appalachia, sometimes before the mountains have even disappeared from my mirrors.

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