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I will soak
through to the bone
some rainy days
Some scorching days
my skin will die
ultra-violently
on desolate others
I won’t talk to
a soul
or the ones i see
will treat me like
a nuisance
some fearful days
i will cry because
i miss you
on loving days
i will laugh because
we’re so close!
a god
disguised as
a vagrant
but then
also vagrants
are god
transforming
from knowledge
to experience
creating a path
from asphalt and
inspiration
would you like
to know the
deepest secret?
held between
the road, the bike,
and me?
:
.
(i am free!)
I had an ego fight today. With myself. Mid-afternoon I find myself plummeting into a foul state of frustration and lethargy. Some of this can be blamed on what is ultimately my self-induced lack of productivity at work. But you can only think of what you can think of, and your attention span will be what it will be.
(Oy, am I distracted lately…)
In retrospect I can see easily the primary cause. Well, the primary cause was, and always will be me. But I think I know now what I let get to me.
I received a phone call from the motorcycle shop. Satya (the motorcycle) was in for her 4,000 mile service, and Matt was calling to say that they finished the service, but that there was “something wrong” which was “greatly concerning them”. I have a good relationship with this shop and they’ve always treated me respectfully and fairly, so this really gets my attention.
“Your rear turnsignals and taillights aren’t working right. Its because the control module was installed wrong…” and so on and so forth.
Immediately I felt like I had to leave work and go get the bike and fix it and prove that it wasn’t broken, or wrong. (You see, I had installed the module before my Blueridge trip and it work[ed/s] perfectly. Until now–but its likely just a loose connection or something?!?) Anyway, this led to me feeling crummy!
See I took Matt’s words “module was installed wrong” personally. In effect, I was caring what he thought of me, and allowing him to devalue me. Perhaps if he had said “there is something wrong with the module” I wouldn’t have felt that way because then the fault would be with the device, not with the person who installed it.
In any case, I don’t give a flying heff what Matt thinks of me or my module-installing abilities. Nor do I find my self-worth in whether or not the module works right, or the motorcycle at all. So I got the bike back, and I still haven’t fixed the module :o)
I’m riding into Florida on I-75 after several hours of smoky interstate and pull off for gas. I notice a sign for a scenic road and inquire at the gas station. I’m done with the interstate! Realizing that I have I-75 to the West and 441 to the East (which intersect close to Gainesville), I just start heading South–when I see signs for either, I make another turn. Eventually Florida 41 merges with 441 and I take it the rest of the way home. Getting off the interstate does make a difference. My average speed didn’t drop much, so my travel time wasn’t that different (not that I really cared about getting there) but the roads were much more interesting and far less populated–resulting in a more casual, enjoyable ride! Two thousand, six hundred and twenty-three point two miles later I pull into my driveway, overloaded and weary, but also rested.
The next day I am restless! I’ve been moving, moving, moving for the last nine days and I don’t want to stop! Fortunately, I have my bicycle to provide an outlet for this channel of energy, and I’m riding the hell out of it. Over the next few days, I get together the videos and pictures I took to make this short film, set to a song by The Shins. Enjoy!
With a few simple leans of the bike the Cherohala skyway becomes Tennesee 68 – a scenic road that takes me southbound to the Georgia state line. Georgia 5 becomes I-575 becomes I-75. For all the new terrain I’ve covered, I’m finding that I-75 through Atlanta is the most challenging, scariest, and most nerve-racking.
I have spent the last five days doing no more and no less than exactly what I wanted. This freedom fulfills me, and I’m sad to see it go, but I’m also looking forward to visiting Sharon and Adi, and revisiting society for a few days. In this trip I am effectively wading on both sides of the coin–the first part is spent in solitude and close to nature. The second is immersed in metropolitan complexity.
Sharon, Adi and I bounce around town for a few days, enjoying excellent food, the Piedmont Park Farmer’s Market (where I buy some spicy pepper jelly) and attend a Yoga class at the YMCA. My body is thankful for that yoga class after so many days of “work”. I really must get back into a regular class.
I’m finding some of the side roads are more challenging and interesting than the parkway. Not in the least for the presence of commercial vehicles including trucks. Also for the sharpness and frequency of the switchbacks, and the grade. And the waterfalls and natural structures observed along the way seem implausible to a creature from the flat, straight terrain of Florida. Getting off the parkway for gasoline is as enjoyable as the parkway itself.
Of course, some of my deviations are intentional, taking moments to ensconce myself in the natural beauty surrounding the veiny parkway.
Crabtree Falls is the first of these stops, suggested by Dave who I met that first morning at Sherando Lake. His description includes that its a place many local residents use for camping…and something he did with his family as a child. Its an “observation point” in the George Washington National Forest. A router-scored plank of wood indicates 500ft to the lower falls and 2 miles to the upper falls…and 3.6 miles to the Appalachian Trail! The Appalachian trail and the parkways I’m exploring criss-cross each other frequently. I make for the trail to the upper falls and practically run my way up. I absolutely run my way down, sliding around the “switchbacks” and tripping over rocks and varicose tree roots. Until I get tired of my backpack bouncing against my lumbar so I walk a bit. But on the way up I run into these two plucky old German women. After sharing a bit of our respective stories they ask if I’ve just graduated–is that why I’m on this trip by myself. “No but I’ve just gotten a divorce,” I joke. “I’m experiencing a new sense of freedom.” On the way down, they wish me good luck with my new freedoms. Ha!
My next intended stop is the Natural Bridge which took me 15 miles off the parkway to Natural Bridge, Virginia. I consider skipping this because the sun is sinking in the sky, but I pep up and lean off the parkway for a new experience. I hate to say it was something of a waste of time! Don’t get me wrong–the natural bridge is just as amazing as it is enormous. The pictures can’t even begin to describe the towering giantness of this rock structure. But its beauty is derailed by the plastic-y crap that has surrounded it. I imagined I might start at a visitor’s center of some sort, and from there hike a mile or two to the structure, in effect enjoying it in a very natural surrounding. What I find instead is that the visitor center, and the wax museum and the petting zoo and a whole bunch of other tourist-y “attractions” have been shit all around it, and the space in between (including the space before, under, and after the bridge) is flatly sealed with concrete. >sigh< And I’m not even allowed to climb up on top…
Grandfather Mountain is another story. Its a biosphere–a protected space that may never be developed so long as the government that says so is still around. At the entrance I am greeted by an agent who quickly stuffs my hand with a very ominous warning to motorcyclists that Grandfather Mountain’s switchbacks are special. I throw caution to the wind and click the transmission into first gear to begin my climb. And she wasn’t kidding–these switchbacks are scary tight! Upon arriving at the top, I look back over my course, and feel the twinge of fear–I’m not sure if I’ll make it down. But that concern will have to wait–instead I head toward the mile-high bridge. This bridge is one mile vertical from sea level. The valley floor below us is much closer, but high enough to trigger vertigo if you’re not comfortable with heights. The bridge leads to one of the higher peaks, and I’m impressed that (like the parkway), there are no guardrails, as if the park’s administrators still believe in personal responsibility. Hah! Nope, its just me and my boots at the edge of the world. Crawling on my butt I scoot out to the edge of the precipice to take some pictures of my feet hanging over the edge of this rock-and-tree universe and think for a few minutes about the motorcycling challenge I have ahead of me. Plucking up some courage, I decide its time to go. And heading down, I remember some advice Marshall gave me for controlling my speed in low gear, and before I know it, I’m grinning my way down the mountain. I’m not conquering anything, but I feel good.
Here is a new concept for me: the Motorcycle Campground. I stay one night each at Willville Motorcycle Campground (VA58/BRP MP177) and Blue Ridge Motorcycle Campground (US276N/BRP MP412). The roads are too tight for cars–you must be on a motorcycle to enter. And while this may seem to puff an air of exclusivity, the campers are really quite amicable. After setting up camp I take advantage of the motorcycle “blood brotherhood”–meet people and swap stories about where we’ve been and where we’re going. It is here that I get more ideas for the next few days, and everyone is more than happy to share. The campgrounds are otherwise comfortable, but for some reason, almost completely devoid of women…? (ha!)
Last night was interesting.
Sherando Lake is a comfortable campground. The sites are well marked and groomed. Getting in-and-out poses no threat. And the bathhouse even sports clean stalls!
After pitching my tent and lighting a fire, I’m preparing dinner–quinoa and spiced blackbeans–when Joe, a park ranger saunters up for a chat. “There have been bear sightings in the area the last two days” he tells me, without alarm. Noting I’m on a motorcycle, he suggests I store any food containers I have in the bathhouse for the night. I have all my food in one saddlebag, so I elect that it would be easy enough for me to stash.
Within an hour, my camping-neighbors, Claude (pronounced cloode) and Gabrielle, a couple of French-Canadians from Quebec, are calling out to me in broken English–”Hey! The bear!” I look up from whatever I’m doing, and find they’re not joking. This black bear is about 200 feet off my campsite, just taking a look. S/he’s no small Florida Black Bear, either, standing (I’m guessing) about 3-1/2 feet at the shoulder on all-fours. I reach for my camera and just as soon as I point, our furry friend gets skittish and makes for deeper woods. Later, some other rangers come by to report another sighting down by the lake. I sleep well anyway.
In the morning I meet Dave–a “bloodbrother” who rode in late last night on his Yamaha FJR touring bike. He’s much more local than myself–about a day’s ride from home, making a loop of some scenic roads. I detail my loose plan/ideas and he suggests changes I can make to include a few other parkways and Deal’s Gap, a well-known “difficult” road aka “The Tail of the Dragon” and US129 (which incidentally only finally dead-ends in Chiefland, FL–a mere hop, skip, and jump from Gainesville).
This will take me through more of North Carolina and across the West border into Tennessee and back a few times. So for now, my route looks like this:
Blue Ridge Parkway to Cherokee, NC
Northbound on 441 through the Sugarlands forest
West on Little River road, winding along the Little River and leading to
The Foothills Parkway which ends at
US129 “Deals Gap” “The Tail of the Dragon” – 318 curves within 11 miles
Right on 143 to Cherohala Skyway
Tennessee 68 South becomes
Georgia 5 South becomes
I-575 merges with
I-75 to
My sister’s house in Atlanta!
Flexibility is good!
The curves are brilliant! I find myself eeking grin after grin as the bike and I lean each other from side to side. I’m twisting the throttle into previously-unseen circumferences, but my speed matches the terrain so my experience is as manageable as it is exhilarating.
I feel the slight trepidation that sometimes accompanies new experiences–but perhaps trepidation, sometimes having a negative connotation, isn’t the right word…anticipation? I’m not sure, but I’ve never experienced roads like these–I’m climbing and dipping whilst simultaneously curving and accelerating and deccelerating. I barely touch my brakes, instead massaging the throttle and gear selector, using the engine to go when I need to go, and slow when I need to slow. On some lengthy downhill strides, I find a perfect harmonic in third gear–a perfect balance between acceleration and engine braking, resulting in a throaty pulse of internal combustion that sounds as good to my ears as it feels to my body.
Towering trees and walls of craggy rock so perfectly enshroud this road–seeing where you’ve been, and where you’re going often prove impossible, even around the tightest corners of the most exasperating switchbacks. I’m drawn to the side of the road by several overlooks, stopping when I’m inspired, continuing when I’m ready. I hop over some walls and explore the less-traveled slopes where I photograph some odd lichens and mosses.
After 105 curvy miles, Skyline Drive eventually gives way to The Blue Ridge Parkway. The start of the parkway lies across a stretch of valley, and the curves here sweep long–a moments rest after the turns of Skyline Drive. But this more relaxed span is short lived–after a few miles a curve right becomes a climb…climb…climb! And at the top of this climb I emerge from a forest-y enclosure to view the valley from a new perspective. My heart fills as my throats splashes into the bottom of my stomach! I’m not afraid, but I realize I’m motorcycling only feet away from a precipice that leads down…very sharply!
No guardrails. Just myself and my own sense of self-preservation keep me from a terminal plummet. Its liberating!
My motorcycle cuffs are turning a nice shade of salmon, and I’m approaching my first stop–Sherando Lake–a campground in Shenandoah.
motorcycle cuffs – n. that sunburned part of the arm, just behind the gloves and just ahead of the jacket sleve which has been pushed up the forearm by wind.
The plan is not to plan. I don’t want to schedule away my flexibility but neither do I want to venture out completely ignorant. So for the month prior to my departure I’m reading about the parkway and have a short list of potential stopping points for my 5-day meander across the Blue Ridge mountains.
The train arrives in Lorton, VA a full hour-and-a-half early and by 8:15 I am disembarking and making my way to the designated waiting area for the crew to release my motorcycle. There are three other motorcycles on the train. Mr. and Mrs. ST1300 disappear quickly, with plans to tour the D.C. area. But the owners of the two Harley touring bikes seem, like myself, more content with a slow start.
If cigarettes make friends, than motorcycles make blood-brothers. Its a bit of ego-indulgence, but I welcome the identification and appreciate meeting new people, even if our apparent commonalities are few and form-based :o)
Jan & George Adams and Charles & Roberta Walker have an agenda similar to my own–heading West to Front Royal, Virginia–the entrance to Shenandoah National Park and Skyline Drive. I’m ditching my planned highway route when the quad accept my request to “tag along”. George has a GPS device on his fat boy, and sets it for “country roads”. Our travel to Front Royal satisfies–we tiptoe through many small no-stoplight towns, sometimes slowing down to 20 MPH. These colonial communities are a far cry from the metro-industrial complexes and rubic junkyards dotting the train route.
Eventually we enter Shenandoah and immediately I’m shrouded in green. Yes, I’m certain there are still roads like this in America, but for how long? My hope is at least this one will survive. We’re met by overlook after overlook! And stopping at some of them, we digest views of fuzzy green mountaintops–like an ocean of broccoli. But also vast expanses of land, which excepting the occasional small farm, sit largely undisturbed. Not a single billboard disrupts picturesque skies, not a commercial vehicle bellows clouds of diesel into my helmet. This, of course, is one point of the parkway.
I’m remembering to drink water and crunch granola bars but I’m forgetting to take pictures. I always seem to forget; perhaps enjoying these moments outweighs the importance of recording them? I feebly snap some of these breathtaking views, but the price of my camera needs more zeroes to capture anything similar to what my eye sees. Charlie takes a few pictures of me and my overloaded bike.
The quad and I fork at the junction of VA211–they have plans to explore Luray caverns, and I want to see the rest of Skyline drive today. I’m not interested in “getting it done”–I’m certainly in no rush. But I want one lengthy leg of this trip dedicated to pure motorcycling.
There are two main points of interest from my perspective–the experience of navigating this road, and the natural beauty surrounding it. The two are not mutually exclusive, but the smart rider will place most of their attention on one or another. So I decide that when I am riding, I will ride, taking in as much as I can. And when I am not riding, I will stop long enough to fully appreciate my surroundings.
I get tired at some point and find rest at an overlook. Propping my feet up on my handlebars, I close my eyes for the best nap of my life under the hot/cold undulation of sun and breeze.
The clock says something-very-early a.m.
I’m clacking my way northbound, one rhythmic tie at a time, and I still I can’t sleep–too much tea?
An earlier version of myself might have declared that the first three hours of my trip passed “uneventfully”, in effect, communicating that my motorcycle ride from Gainesville to the Sanford Amtrak station ended with myself safely stepping off the bike instead of having fallen off it at some point.
“uneventfully”
I think I am done with that word. no single moment of my life is uneventful. Each intersection of Here and Now is a celebration.
My parents meet me at the station to see me off. “Enjoy your trip” Mom says. I reply, “I’m already enjoying my trip–this is just the next leg.” I’m referring both to my vacation and my life.
Making my way through the station’s processes and finally boarding the train vividly punctuate, by contrast, the paranoia of our airline systems. I motor my teeming motorcycle onto the holding rack with no inspection, and no questions other than “Are you leaving anything on the bike? You’ll have to sign a waiver for that.” Selecting only my backpack to accompany my body into the passenger compartment, I make my way, uninhibited, to the ticket counter, and thereafter directly to the train. At no point have I passed through a metal detector or removed my steel-toes boots. Neither have I placed my belongings on a rubber conveyor for inspection by underpaid-and-correspondingly-apathetic TSA employees.
Once rolling, I settle in for some long-anticipated reading time–our route to Lorton, Virginia will take 17 1/2 hours. My book-hungry eyes feast upon Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, and I whirl around Siddhartha’s discussion on the illusory nature of time. Consuming The Man Who Planted Trees fills me with a few lines that reflect my own ideas about “God”. Reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull tickles me with Jonathan’s extrapolations on Here and Now–a concept I’ve entertained for some time and which I am happily integrating. Richard Bach’s creative perspectives in Jonathan… intrigue me.
As darkness descends around this tube of steel and aluminum, most passengers turn out their lights and roll over onto flat pillows and curl under thin blankets. The train muscles through the night, wobbling here and there, but nothing bothersome.
The East coast sleeps as I lie awake, glancing them briefly as though I’m the one holding still, and they’re the ones rushing by. Their streetlights and porchlights give me only the smallest glimpse as the night moves on, and I lie awake.
dim stars twinkle messages from eons past
obscured by the spires of distant fires
the dusty moon punctures the black sky
with a rusty salmon glow
erect trees hang delicately curved branches
meeting their peers for a twiggy handshake
designed to shroud me in a verdent tunnel;
through this i excitedly plummet
the hiding sun makes way for cool breezes
my jacket bellows, inflated
every vulnerable patch of skin is delightfully cooled
pockets of warm air massage my spine
my headlight urges photons across the asphalt plains
I can see only so far; darkness, the unknown, lie ahead
my mirrors are solid black; they reflect nothing
but the past, which rushes away as fast as I move forward
a smile cracks the corners of my mouth
my gloved hand twists the eager throttle
embracing these unknowns
enjoying the journey, awaiting the sunrise
