I recently rode the motorcycle over to Kentucky to visit family over the Easter Holiday. It was an amazing trip riding mostly back roads up through the mountains of Western North Carolina, South West Virginia, the tip of Tennessee and Eastern Kentucky. I have dreamed of taking a long motorcycle trip on my Roadstar Silverado ever since I bought it last summer so this was a dream come true.
It took two days to make the ride each way with a couple of relaxing days in-between spent with family. The weather was fine except the first day headed back from Kentucky where it was drizzling or foggy most of the time. The morning of the first day was chilly but I had thermal underwear, flannel lined jeans and a sweatshirt on under my leathers as well as a leather bandit mask to cut down on the wind chill factor (if you wear one of these you MUST remember to take it off before going in to pay for gas.) Rolling up through Boon and on up to Mountain City helped me get used to carving through the “twisties”. Leaving out of Mountain City, running northwest, I got into some serious switchback road. I swear I saw my own rear break light in front of me a dozen times as I scraped the metal off the edges of both floor boards time and time again. I must admit I felt the adrenalin shakes and breathed a sigh of relief when the road got a bit less kinky along the bottom of Shady Valley. Then it was back to catching up with my tail light as I continued on towards Cumberland Gap. I stopped for supper in Corbin, Kentucky, and called home to give the wife and daughter an update on my progress. (Aren’t cell phones the greatest?)
It was getting close to sunset as I continued west towards Somerset on the 192. I was blinded by the sun strobing through the trees until I rode deeper into the canyon where I needed to pull over and change to amber goggles. In Somerset I picked up the 90 and rumbled on through the evening to Glasgow where I stopped for the night. Another call home, a half hour of weather channel and then I was out cold. The next morning it was three easy hours north under overcast skies to Owensboro, where I spent two days with family catching up on the gossip, eating country cooking, and napping on the couch before waiting out the rain on Monday morning and leaving around noon to head back.
It started to rain again as I got to Cave City so I stopped and had a bowl of chili and a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches as I waited it out. When it finally let up I rode on over rain dampened roads hoping in vain the weather would clear. Tired and wet I stopped for the night in Monticello. It was 8:30 before I finished a hot shower and changed into dry jeans. I walked up the quit street looking for a place to get something to eat but the choices within walking distance were slim; the grill at the local pool hall with its pickup truck crowd or the Mexican deli/bakery across the street with a child playing behind the counter. I opted for the deli. It was one of those “real” Mexican places that seem to be popping up all over the east as the Spanish migration to the North continues. They were closing but were willing to make up a couple of chicken tacos for three bucks. Best tacos I’ve ever eaten and I’m sixty years old and from California so you know I’ve eaten my share.
The last day of the road trip was truly magical. Heading east through the Daniel Boon forest on 92 winding up through canyons alongside of spring freshened streams and rivers I would climb up into the clouds, pass along the top of sun lit ridges where I could see for miles in both directions looking out over cotton stuffed valleys before rumbling down into the mist again. The flowering Red Bud, Dogwood, and crab apples trees brought huge splashes of color against the dark green of Long Leaf Pine and the mint green or deep burgundy of newly budding leaves. A stop in Pineville at Shoney’s for lunch netted me a note penned on a napkin, “Mr. Motorcycle man, would you meet me for coffee in the morning? Send the note back please.” The waitress, who brought me the note stood waiting for my reply and muttered, “I never get notes like that.” I left it lying on the table as I finished my lunch allowing the fantasies to fade. I was heading home to the woman I love and while the invite was flattering I’m well beyond that kind of foolishness, and I have no plans of pissing in my cornflakes, if you know what I mean. Scooting my chair back after drinking down the last of my sweet tea, I pick up the note and looked around the room. No one was looking back expectantly so I went to the cashier to pay up. “Everything OK” the waitress asked with a smirk. “Just fine,” I replied, grinning back, “and I got myself a souvenir to take home.” She laughed and said, “Yeah, we were all talking about the note back in the kitchen. You ride safe now.” I stuffed my change in my pocket, said thanks, went out and fired up the scooter.
The forest floors in the mountains of Virginia, as I rolled along the 58, were filled with Rhododendrons and I felt like a thunder bird swooping and curving through the wilderness. Because I chose to stay off of the Interstates and large highways I saw very little traffic. Mostly just locals who would smile, wave or nod in passing. I would stop in small towns for gas or a bite to eat and people would come over to admire my bike and ask where I was from. Many would declare that it was a “nice day to ride” and wish me a safe trip. When I got to Winston Salem late in the afternoon, I gave up on the back roads and got on the I-40, cranked it up to eighty and roared on home to Rosewood in under two hours. It was a good trip.
jmayton@coastalnet.com
