A reason to have two-way communications if there ever was one: Coming
down Whitehead St. from the north in the heavy tourist traffic, turning left onto US-1 to get the h___ out
of this hot, humid, and way-too-crowded tourist mecca, who do I see pulled up at the light, ready to make
his own turn to the south but Russ! Too late for me to stop in the intersection, I rode half a block
until I found a spot to pull up to the curb and waited. And waited. No Russ. Well, we'd
agreed to meet at the buoy at 12 noon, so off I went again. The time was about 11:45, so I only had
to kill 15 minutes and we would meet up at the marker.
At 11:55 I rode past the marker and around the block. Next time
around the block, I found a spot within view of the marker and parked the bike. Russ should be
showing up any time now. At 12:15, feeling that if a thermometer were stuck into my flesh it would
register "well done", I elected to get moving toward the mainland. I dutifully left a message on
Russ' voice mail, telling him what I was up to. Truthfully, any movement would be welcome, but
from Key West any meaningful movement must be back toward the east. And it felt VERY good to be
moving again.
Now that I was back out on a highway again, it was possible to revert to
contemplation mode. All along the keys, but in particular as I neared Key West, I had seen
motorcyclists riding along, enjoying the weather just as I was. Almost to a person, they were in
minimal clothing, and sans helmets. To them, I'm sure I looked to be the oddity. But having
seen a few cases of road rash, I preferred the Roadcrafter and a helmet, along with a little discomfort
the few times I was stopped.
It was about 2:00 in the afternoon when I reached Tavernier and I hadn't
eaten since breakfast, so I fueled the bike and then found a Waffle House. Until a trip to the
south in 1988, I'd never heard of Waffle House, but they quickly became my favorite stop for a quick,
fairly good meal, any time of day or night. An added bonus, they have some of the best iced tea to
be found anywhere, and this was definitely an iced tea day.
While eating, I kept a close watch on the highway, expecting to see Russ
come through at any time, being quite sure that I was in front of him now. Finishing my meal with
no sight of him, I resumed my travels to the mainland.
Just as you're coming into Florida City from the south, Card Sound Road
intersects US-1 to enter the city. All traffic coming off the keys must travel this short stretch of
road, and then US-1 turns northeast, and 997 branches off to go due north for a ways. Knowing that
Russ had to come through here eventually, I stopped in front of an adult beverage store with a large
parking lot, left my Hi-Viz Yellow Roadcrafter jacket hung over the windshield, with the bike parked as
near the highway as was safe, and waited in the shade, slapping the numerous flies that had decided I was
their evening meal. It was just over an hour before I saw him approaching, but here came Russ, riding
down the highway. And there went Russ, going on down the highway. I might as well have been
invisible for all the notice I got.
Hurriedly donning my jacket, helmet, and gloves, I took off in hot pursuit,
never to see so much as a taillight again that day or the next. Oh well, we were again headed to the
same place. Mike Sachs had offered to have his students swap tires and service the bikes of any
ldriders who came through the Atlanta area, and we were taking advantage of his generosity. DeKalb Tech
now became the destination. At this point I was in the mood to travel and get to some place cooler,
so I actually welcomed the chance to make good time without needing to keep track of someone else, or him
of me. For the most part, Russ and I were comfortable with whatever speed the rider in the lead would
set, and had had no problems in that respect. But I knew that once I decided to let the Concours get
into its power band, the Nighthawk would be working awfully hard to keep up. And once on the Turnpike,
it would be time to make time.
As luck (or poor planning on my part) would have it, I managed to hit the
Miami area around rush hour again. Found myself taking the "scenic route" once, but got back onto the
right road shortly thereafter and over onto the turnpike. Originally, I'd thought I would stay on I-95
to near Fort Pierce and then switch to the turnpike, as they are within sight of each other for most of that
distance, and I-95 is free (a powerful incentive for someone as frugal as me). But once on the turnpike,
I was glad I'd made that choice. Traffic was much heavier over on the interstate, and those of us on the
turnpike were probably traveling 10 to 15 mph faster. Plus, there was virtually no LEO presence on the
turnpike. The distance from Miami to Orlando was covered in a respectable length of time.
With the sun over the horizon, this part of Florida had cooled to just about
the perfect temperature, given my state of acclimatization, the gear I was wearing, and my rate of progress.
It was a good time to be traveling. Surprisingly, there were fewer insects sacrificing themselves on
my windshield than I would have expected, here in this warm, humid climate. Still, they managed to
necessitate washing the windshield at every gas stop, something I'd been able to forego earlier in my ride.
As I rode north on Florida's Turnpike north of Orlando, with traffic almost
nil at this late hour, I wondered to myself if the travelers on this stretch of highway were out to make
sure they got their money's worth from the tolls. Where traffic had been moving at a very respectable
pace between the Miami area and Orlando, now it was moving at what could be called a blistering pace.
Determined not to be rear-ended, I put safety first and foremost and kept up with traffic. There went
my gas mileage again.
Wildwood hadn't changed all that much since I used to stop here in my
cross-country trucking days. It was about 11:00 PM when I pulled in there to gas up again and grab
something at the Waffle House where I'd often stopped in years gone by. Knowing I'd be riding all night,
I wanted to be sure I was well nourished. Once again I took the time to enjoy a good meal and some
delicious iced tea, and felt ready to continue on 'til daylight when I headed for I-75.
Wednesday, April 24, 2002 I-75 North of Wildwood, Florida
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Observation:
By the time we got to Key West, I had become acclimated to the high
temperatures. Even though it was up to 93 F, I never felt the need of the Mira-Cool vest again.
But that worked against me as I rode into Georgia late at night. Now I found that I was ready to put on
the Widder's when the temperature dropped to 60°F! No wonder those guys from the redneck belt sound
like wimps. So was I after a few days exposure to the heat. My hat's off to those guys when
they ride in sub-freezing temperatures - what a shock to the system it must be.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As I rode on, crossing into Georgia, the evening chill became more
pronounced. But to stop and dig out the electric vest and put it on was something I couldn't bring
myself to do. How could I face myself the next morning, knowing I had become such a wimp that I had
to wear an electric vest in south Georgia in April, after riding down the Alcan in below zero temperatures.
So I did the next best thing and got out my thinsulate jacket and put it on. Still a bit chilly, but
much better. Damn! Egos sure can be hard to live with, and harder to live up to.
Something else that occurred that night had me shaking my head at my own
frailty. Even though I have a Vista-Cruise throttle lock on the Concours, the speed will still vary
a bit due to gradients, wind strength and direction, other traffic, etc. So I keep a pretty close
watch on the speedometer and adjust the throttle as necessary. At one point I noticed my speed had
fallen off quite a bit so I nudged the handgrip. Checking again in a moment or two, I noticed the
speed had not changed, so I gave it another nudge. This went on for 5 to 10 miles, with no indicated
change in my speed. It was just when I began to get concerned that something may have been happening
to the engine that I realized I had been watching the thermometer rather than the speedometer. After
that I slowed back down to a sane nighttime speed and started watching the appropriate instrument.
At Cordelle, Georgia, I stopped for an early breakfast, then continued on
past Macon and up to the suburbs of Atlanta, where I found Mike's class at about 10:00 AM. Having made
better time from Key West than I'd anticipated (I'd neglected to stop for a promised delicious oyster
dinner along the east coast of Florida), I was here at DeKalb Tech a day early. "No problem", said
Mike, "we'll get your bike in right away". And so they did. The rear tire had been shipped to
Mike ahead of time, but the front tire was obviously not going to make the entire distance either. Mike
called his local supplier and found a Michelin 100X in the size I needed. This was something I could
grow accustomed to real easily - being treated like royalty. Many thanks to Mike and his students.
Those students showed themselves to be both eager and well-taught.
Although I kept an eye on everything that they did to the bike, I could have walked away and left the bike
to them without a second thought, they were that thorough and conscientious. Mike is an excellent
instructor, obviously.
Russ showed up a little later, and we compared notes for a while, then he
brought his bike in for new tires and service. After the fall in California, his needed a little more
attention than did mine, and with Russ and two students working on it, got it back in good shape in short
order. Late that afternoon we rode up the highway to Tucker, and got a room at the Masters Inn so we
could get some laundry done and catch up on our rest.
Thursday, April 25, 2002 Tucker, Georgia
Today was spent in getting a few more items taken care of on Russ' bike and
riding to lunch with Mike and friends in the afternoon. We had already checked out of our motel room,
so when Mike finished work that evening we stopped by his place, and then all rode up to Marietta to enjoy
a sumptuous meal with his friends, the Joiners. Ralph and his wife are touring riders themselves,
with some impressive trips under their belts. We enjoyed looking at each other's photos and comparing
notes on various places we'd been 'til late in the evening. Another visit that was hard to end.
Leaving our host's house shortly before midnight, Russ and I parted ways
for a brief period. Due to a death in the family, he would ride east to North Carolina to attend a
funeral, while I continued north toward our next rendezvous point in Dale City, Virginia. Thus I was
off once more on a nighttime ride. It may well be that the novelty of riding when it is both dark
and warm brings a fascination that keeps me wide-awake and alert. Whatever it is, darkness has never
discouraged me from continuing on, so away I went toward Chattanooga.
Friday, April 26, 2002 I-75 North of Marietta, Georgia
Upon reaching the southern outskirts of Chattanooga, I realized that while
I was still feeling fine and capable of riding for many more hours, if I were going to see any of the
spectacular scenery I'd ridden to view along the Cherohala Skyway, it was time to stop and get some sleep
so I could take advantage of the daylight tomorrow. Around 1:00 AM I found a room and settled in for
half a night's worth of rest.
Allowing myself the luxury of sleeping in the following morning, I was the
next-to-the-last vehicle out of the motel parking lot. Ahhh, vacation life is good! While the
sun wasn't shining brightly, at least it was neither raining nor snowing, so it was a good day for a ride.
After a hearty breakfast, it was time for some sightseeing, along with a cautious look at Deals Gap and
"The Dragon". Up I-75 to Sweetwater, then TN-68 over to Tellico Plains, where I got onto the
Cherohala Skyway. As I watched the numbers on the GPS III+ altimeter rise, the numbers on the digital
thermometer fell at a corresponding rate. Trying to remember the formula for adiabatic cooling with
altitude gain, I began to see raindrops splashing off my faceshield. Now I began to wonder if I might
yet see some more of the white stuff before the day was over. But with only a bit of hail as I
surmounted the high point on the TN-NC border, I surmised that my former (bad) luck was now safely behind
me. In retrospect, I believe it had taken a shortcut over the mountains, and was now waiting in ambush
a few miles ahead. Fifteen short miles after entering the great state of North Carolina, I was on
my side again. But at least this was different - for the first time since I bought it, my Concours
was laying on its left side. And I'd only brought a right hand foot peg bracket. Oh well, even
Boy Scouts sometimes find themselves unprepared.
There's something about the sudden sound of plastic and steel sliding across
asphalt that jars one out of the pleasant thoughts that usually accompany a leisurely ride through scenic
countryside. Kind of an "Oh, s__t, here we go again" thought replaced the previous reverie.
In the moments after picking myself up and dusting myself off, I pondered the
lists of things I might have been doing wrong. The tires were both new, with just 250 miles since
installation. But I'd already had the bike leaning farther over on earlier curves, attempting to get
them scrubbed in before I had to resume a more frantic pace in the quest for the final corner of the tour.
Walking back to where the bike first started making marks on the pavement, I saw where it slid from the
wrong side of the center line out to the shoulder of this tight, left hand switchback, and realized that
I had let the bike drift into the oncoming lane as I was looking over my shoulder to watch for oncoming
downhill traffic. Grinding my boot sole into the asphalt, I could tell that traction was good there.
But on the thick paint stripe, it was more akin to walking on wet floor tile. Simple carelessness on
my part. Even putting along at a sensible, sightseeing pace is no time to let down one's guard when
there are but two wheels underneath. Lesson learned, dues to be paid when the bills come in.
Strap pieces to the bike, apply a little duct tape (I'm getting good at
this now) and on to Deals Gap, where I would ride the 318 curves of US-129 with a greater humility and
a heightened sense of vulnerability. Tip-toeing along at my rolling-roadblock pace enabled me to
inspect this mountain motorcycle mecca, and to contemplate its magnetism, other than the claimed 318
curves in only 11 miles of narrow two-lane pavement.
Coming from one of the most wide-open states in the wide open West, I
felt confined by the abundant foliage bracketing the roadway. In Alaska, we approach every curve
with caution, as around each one there can be large rocks, huge RV's, or animals weighing more than
a fully loaded touring bike and rider combined, with intelligence only slightly greater than that of
the average RV's pilot. Here, in these hills and hollers, every other curve was a blind one, and
these daredevil sportbike riders must have a faith (unwarranted, I'm sure) in the ability of the
drivers of oncoming vehicles that could move all the Smoky Mountains en masse. With deeply engrained
habits firmly in control, I accelerated boldly on the straightaways, only to turn my brake rotors a
cherry red as I came up to a corner. No more surprises, thank you.
One sign of squidly behavior sticks in my mind: Dual skid marks ending
at a bit of wreckage on a small hillside, with dark ashes and scorched tree trunks offering mute evidence
that someone had taken the term "crash and burn" very literally. At long last, and yet in a way, too
soon, the Dragon was behind me.
Coming off The Dragon (where I must have set a new record for the slowest
transit - had to pull off to let a Suburban get by) to the north, I elected to take the scenic route
rather than head back to the slab at Knoxville. Thus I found myself winding along the Foothill Parkway,
heading for its intersection with US-321, eventually coming to a bigger road at Pigeon Forge, TN. As I
drew closer to this home of Dollywood, it was easy to see that tourism is alive and well in this neck of
the Tennessee woods. Rural innocence but a thing of the past, and blatant commercialism running
rampant.
Although I had read of its scheduled occurrence months before heading off
on this trip, the fact had slipped my mind: But now I was amply reminded that this was the site of the
annual gathering of those-who-come-only-in-matched-pairs. Must have been thousands of them swarming up
and down the surrounding roads. Enough accessory lights between them all to illuminate the north side
of the Smoky Mts. And something I found a little odd - there were nearly as many riders on steeds
whose owners were determined to save lives at the cost of eardrums. Guess the two-wheel brotherhood
proves engine oil is thicker than... water-cooling.
Crowds being anathema to me, I was soon back on I-40, and then I-81, with
surprisingly light traffic for an interstate. There are those riders who find the superslabs something
to be avoided at all costs. But here in Tennessee, as well as in parts of the neighboring states,
these limited access highways allow one to cram more scenic miles into a few short hours than any other
roadway. To me, the bucolic landscape brought back memories of a distant childhood, in which life was
simpler; more relaxed. It was a pleasant interlude, a time of refreshing before diving back into the
competitive world of the I-95 corridor. In addition, there was repair work to be done once more, thanks
to the unforgiving North Carolina pavement. Leon Begeman had already been notified that I was on my way,
and once again with a bike in need of band-aids.
So on this evening I only rode as far as Glade Spring, Virginia, where
I spotted a motel with a restaurant adjacent - just what was prescribed by the events of the afternoon - and
called it a day. Not the best day, but certainly not the worst.