Sun Day
Sunday May 30, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Since Kevin is the lead pastor at Gulf Coast Worship Center, he goes to work early on Sunday mornings (http://www.yourfamilyplace.com). This is a very casual church, and Kevin actually preaches in blue jeans as often as not, but we have actually packed some casual clothes into the Escapade trailer's garment bag. Kitty brings in the garment bag from the trailer that's still parked in the garage and we dig out some clothes for the day. We pile into the minivan and arrive about a half hour before the service starts.
We don't know a lot of people here but have made friends with some and it's nice to see them again. I talk to my Harley Davidson riding friend James about riding experiences and motorcycles we've had. "I may not be able to ride a thousand miles," he says, "but I do love the rumble!"
Later, talking to him and the worship pastor, Eddie, I show them a picture of me and a four-and-a-half pound lobster. It was taken last year at Cook's Lobster House on Bailey Island, Maine, while returning from our ride to the Gaspe Peninsula and other parts of Canada. "I want to do what you do. I want to ride to Virginia, pick you up, and we'll ride to Maine for some lobster."
You're on, my friend. I'll do it in a heartbeat! I keep a permanent GPS waypoint for Cook's Lobster House, because you just never know when an emergency lobster run will present itself. I'm ready at all times! And I'll buy!
There's a large US Navy SeaBee base here in Gulfport. "SeaBee" actually comes from "CB", for Construction Battalion. Their motto is "We fight, we build." If you absolutely, positively need a runway in a faraway hostile jungle halfway around the world by tomorrow morning, these are the people you call. Their exploits and capabilities are legendary. Kevin's neighbor, Steve, is one of them. He's in his forties and as fit a man as I've seen, all muscle and bone and lean as a swamp reed. He's offered to build some giant flower boxes for Kevin and Kristal along with several for himself. Later in the afternoon I wonder over to Steve's house where he and Kevin have assembled the lumber and materials for the flower boxes. Steve is attacking this project with the same fervor and precision his SeaBees are known for. These will be the best-constructed flower boxes ever created! Kevin and I offer to help when we can but mostly it's his show, working until darkness stops the project.
Meanwhile, when we return home for the evening, there's excitement because one of Danica's five chrysalises (or, more properly, chrysalides) has hatched into a butterfly. Some time ago, Kitty had given her a little butterfly habitat kit where she could watch the caterpillars spin their cocoon and eventually metamorphose into butterflies. We admire the transformation that has taken place from a drab, lifeless-appearing shell into a gorgeous butterfly that periodically tests his delicate orange and brown wings in a slow folding-unfolding rhythm.
It reminds me that our lives can be transformed through faith and the injection of God's love into our lives.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 7
Birth Day
Saturday May 29, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
"Happy birthday!" I say to Kitty. Her birthday is always around Memorial Day, and frequently on Memorial Day weekend. We'd decided on our last visit to the Mississippi family that if they couldn't come to us for a birthday party, we'd take the birthday party to them. And thus we found ourselves wondering almost 1,400 miles on our Gold Wing through the back roads of South Carolina and Georgia, then along the white sand beaches of the Florida Panhandle to Kevin's house in Mississippi. Today is Kitty's birthday and it's Party Day.
But first, we're off to the Discovery Center, a wonderfully creative fantasy house where the kids can variously transform themselves from train conductors into ticket agents into ladies at high tea into hotel guests into lobster-fishermen into crane operators into mountain climbers into barbers or barbershop customers into grocery shoppers into grocery store owners into tree-house dwellers. Amidst all these venues are some cleverly designed scientific "experiments" from which I myself learn a few things, notably that a golf ball rolled down a variable-pitch incline will beat the one rolled down a straight incline every time, even though the starting and ending elevations are the same.
And then lunch, after which Papa is exhausted and needs a little nap, while others go to a kid's birthday party at a place I think is called Kangaroos - some kind of bounce house where apparently all the venues are related to bouncing onto or off of something. Way too exhausting for the likes of me!
As a heavy black thunderstorm rolls through the area, we head for dinner at Back Bay Seafood Restaurant where we'd eaten a few weeks ago when Solo Guy visited the Mississippi family. I'd ridden the Wing by myself to a crawfish-eating escapade in Vicksburg, Mississippi with about 75 biker friends, and afterwards streaked 200 miles southeast to Gulfport to spend a day there. I'd made a GPS waypoint decided then that I wanted to return to this restaurant, and that's what Kitty has chosen for her birthday dinner. It's a moderately priced place with a large menu of seafood prepared in a bewildering variety of ways. By the time we're finished eating, the storm has, for the most part, passed to the east. We sit by the window watching the orange setting sun as it paints an orange sky shot through with the remnants of the storm clouds, and kisses the rippling waters of the bay with shimmering orange highlights, while the poles of the fishing piers become silhouettes of soldiers standing at strict attention in the fading evening light. On the way home we see a rainbow.
And thus home for the birthday party. Kitty is temporarily banished to the kids' play room while the party gets set up. Danica has been the chief planner for Kitty's party unless, of course, you were to account for some help from Kristal. After the banners and streamers are hung and the balloons are tied to the chair of honor, Kitty is called in and everyone yells "Surprise!" I have to laugh in spite of myself at the absurdity of it, since Kitty has known since March that this is our primary excuse for coming here. Even so, she's a bit teary-eyed while everyone's kazoos trumpet "Happy Birthday!", and it's a great little party with just the family.I'm glad we could spend this birthday with our family!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 6
Lazy Day
Friday May 28, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
"Wake up, Papa!" My four-year-old granddaughter Danica pads into our room in giant pink slippers accompanied by Monkey, her stuffed animal of the day. She climbs into bed and we snuggle for a minute, then she's off to meet her day. Through the electronic baby monitor I can hear wake-up noises in 22-month-old Carter's room as Kristal gets him ready for the day.
It's a lazy, lazy day and we're just happy to see our family again. It's been hard to watch them move from northern Virginia to Mississippi, where they've lived for eight months now, and we've taken every opportunity to visit and maintain the relationships we forged with Kevin, Kristal, and our grandkids while they lived near us.
After breakfast, Kevin and I move some stuff in the garage to see if we can make room for the bike and trailer. We are successful, and as I pull the rig in beside their minivan, I'm reminded once again that the Wing with the Escapade trailer is longer by about 3 inches than their Dodge Caravan minivan.Later, sitting on the shaded patio, I'm watching a furious water battle raging between the adults and the kids. Kevin has a water pistol. The others have these giant tube things that suck up a large quantity of water and shoot it 20 feet with deadly accuracy. "You never bring a knife to a gunfight!" I tell Kevin. "You have a pistol, they have machine guns!"
We plan to be here only for a few days before hitting the road again, but a feeling of indescribable contentment washes over me in the warm Mississippi sunshine as I watch my little family frolic by the little pool. It's a moment to treasure.
The laziest of lazy days passes with a kid's movie on DVD, even a little nap for Papa, ribs and corn-on-the-cob on the grill, and then Kevin and I decide on the spur of the moment to see a late movie. We opt to see Iron Man II. Sequels are rarely as good as the original, and this I think is no exception, but it's pretty good and the special effects are fantastic. The character Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) was eccentric in the first movie, but he's over the top in this one. There's a reason for that, though, and it creates its own dramatic subplot, a tension that runs through the entire script.
This has been a wonderful day. Perfect. Lazy. Day.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 5
Virginia to Mississippi
Thursday May 27, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
We skip Park #6, St. Andrews State Recreation Area. The locals we talk to this morning describe it as a lovely beach setting with several nature trails and an alligator observation area. A great place to spend a day or several days, but not a sight-seeing stop for a traveling couple on a Gold Wing.
The early heat already has a firm grip on the day as we climb aboard the bike. Kitty's standard "And there we go" announcement in the headset signals that she's situated, plugged in, and ready. We ease out of the parking lot northward to catch US 98 west where we left it last evening.
The traffic this morning is quite acceptable, so I don't think I'm in danger of violating an important rule, but it's a rather nondescript four-lane as it runs through miles of shopping malls and car lots. After a while decide to try Rte 30-A, which runs hard along the beach and while slower, is also more rewarding. The speed limit is 35 mph and there are some buildings on the beach side of the highway, but we see spectacular vistas of sparkling white sand beaches and the vivid turquoise waters of the Gulf. But after a while, there's too much traffic, too many red lights, and too many kids on bicycles, so we opt for the faster road.
Yesterday saw the emergence of Slow-Down Guy, who's rather the antithesis of Solo Guy (who also rides with me from time to time). Slow-Down Guy generally doesn't exceed the speed limit, and his attitude could be summed up as "If 55 mph is good, then 50 mph must be better." He is here today, and rolls sedately through the beachfront communities that could be along most beachfronts in the US.
We make our way through Destin, renowned for having perhaps the best beaches in the country. Just west of Destin lies Okaloosa Island, a narrow strip of land and an interesting five miles of sand dunes with blue water visible on both sides of the island.
West of Oklaloosa Island we find the first open country we've seen on US 98 for about 70 miles. Slow-Down Guy is fine with the slow-down pace of the morning's ride but it's very hot, about 90F, and coupled with humidity, Kitty is feeling the effects of the heat. I consider making a run for it on I-10, but the Interstate is a couple dozen miles north and there's no major road to get there at the moment. So at Navarre, instead of seeking the Interstate, we decide to veer south across the big bridge to Gulf Islands National Seashore. Pleasantly, the temperature is about five degrees cooler and there's a breeze. This is another 35-mph stretch of about 20 miles but it's very scenic and offers a close-up view of shifting sand dunes and dazzling white beaches that are nearly deserted.
Yesterday, on the bike path at St. Joseph's State Park, we were startled to see dotted lines that separate the lanes, just like an auto route. Today there is a bike path but no dotted lines and mostly impassable to a bicycle because of blown sand several inches deep. At one location where there's no sand on the bicycle path, I park the bike (we've had no traffic coming or going) and walk onto the sand to get a picture of the bike with the large expanse of sand and water on the relatively desolate beach. I notice that the white sand is extremely fine-grained, almost powder-like, and much finer than the sand found on East Coast or West Coast beaches. 
On the western end of the island, nearing Pensacola, we see a group of cars and people milling about. As we approach, we can see a Toyota pickup truck sunk to the axles in the fine white sand, with the drivers of several other pickups and a park ranger preparing to connect a tow strap to remove the unfortunate fellow's truck from the sand's grip. A person I presume to be the driver is talking to the park ranger. I'm pretty sure this is not a conversation I'd like to be having!
A long bridge into Pensacola ends our little island detour, and the temperature has climbed to 93F. I look at the route and decide to abandon the planned route and head to our son's house the fastest way. So I call up "KevHouse" on the GPS, and it routes us on I-110 north of Pensacola to I-10. We ride the remaining 125 miles on I-10, through the tunnel at Mobil, across the long bridge over the marsh near Pascagoula, and on to Gulfport.
From a riding perspective, US 98 has been a rewarding ride, one that I'd like to do again and again, from Tallahassee to, say, Tyndall Air Force base east of Panama City. From there until Pensacola, it's about 100 miles of strip malls, car dealerships, marine establishments, and thousands of high-rise and low-rise condos and vacation homes. The beaches appear spectacular and would definitely offer a spectacular place to stay, it's just not a great place to ride through. Those last hundred miles or so haven't offered a great ride but I always try to learn something from every experience. What I learned here is that my perspective of "beach" is somewhat narrow. I tend to think of East Coast beaches where there is a town or a 20-mile stretch of beach. Here, there are literally hundreds of miles of white-sand beaches where you can pick a spot, set up your picnic chair or a blanket, and soak up the sun almost year-round.
We fill up for one last fuel stop right in Gulfport. "I'm ready to be off this bike," says Kitty. I'm sure she's thinking more about the grandkids than the heat but it's been really hot all day and she suffers in the heat.
We pull into the driveway and unload our stuff, wait a few minutes for the grandkids to wake up from their naps, and have a joyous reunion when they wake up. The Virginia family has ridden their Gold Wing 1,352 miles the long slow way to see the Mississippi family.
I'll clean and cover the bike and trailer tonight, and then tomorrow we'll figure out if the rig fits into the garage with their minivan. Here we plan to be for the next five days over the Memorial Day weekend.
GPS Track, Day 5
Thursday May 27, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
We skip Park #6, St. Andrews State Recreation Area. The locals we talk to this morning describe it as a lovely beach setting with several nature trails and an alligator observation area. A great place to spend a day or several days, but not a sight-seeing stop for a traveling couple on a Gold Wing.
The early heat already has a firm grip on the day as we climb aboard the bike. Kitty's standard "And there we go" announcement in the headset signals that she's situated, plugged in, and ready. We ease out of the parking lot northward to catch US 98 west where we left it last evening.
The traffic this morning is quite acceptable, so I don't think I'm in danger of violating an important rule, but it's a rather nondescript four-lane as it runs through miles of shopping malls and car lots. After a while decide to try Rte 30-A, which runs hard along the beach and while slower, is also more rewarding. The speed limit is 35 mph and there are some buildings on the beach side of the highway, but we see spectacular vistas of sparkling white sand beaches and the vivid turquoise waters of the Gulf. But after a while, there's too much traffic, too many red lights, and too many kids on bicycles, so we opt for the faster road.Yesterday saw the emergence of Slow-Down Guy, who's rather the antithesis of Solo Guy (who also rides with me from time to time). Slow-Down Guy generally doesn't exceed the speed limit, and his attitude could be summed up as "If 55 mph is good, then 50 mph must be better." He is here today, and rolls sedately through the beachfront communities that could be along most beachfronts in the US.
We make our way through Destin, renowned for having perhaps the best beaches in the country. Just west of Destin lies Okaloosa Island, a narrow strip of land and an interesting five miles of sand dunes with blue water visible on both sides of the island.
West of Oklaloosa Island we find the first open country we've seen on US 98 for about 70 miles. Slow-Down Guy is fine with the slow-down pace of the morning's ride but it's very hot, about 90F, and coupled with humidity, Kitty is feeling the effects of the heat. I consider making a run for it on I-10, but the Interstate is a couple dozen miles north and there's no major road to get there at the moment. So at Navarre, instead of seeking the Interstate, we decide to veer south across the big bridge to Gulf Islands National Seashore. Pleasantly, the temperature is about five degrees cooler and there's a breeze. This is another 35-mph stretch of about 20 miles but it's very scenic and offers a close-up view of shifting sand dunes and dazzling white beaches that are nearly deserted.
Yesterday, on the bike path at St. Joseph's State Park, we were startled to see dotted lines that separate the lanes, just like an auto route. Today there is a bike path but no dotted lines and mostly impassable to a bicycle because of blown sand several inches deep. At one location where there's no sand on the bicycle path, I park the bike (we've had no traffic coming or going) and walk onto the sand to get a picture of the bike with the large expanse of sand and water on the relatively desolate beach. I notice that the white sand is extremely fine-grained, almost powder-like, and much finer than the sand found on East Coast or West Coast beaches. 
On the western end of the island, nearing Pensacola, we see a group of cars and people milling about. As we approach, we can see a Toyota pickup truck sunk to the axles in the fine white sand, with the drivers of several other pickups and a park ranger preparing to connect a tow strap to remove the unfortunate fellow's truck from the sand's grip. A person I presume to be the driver is talking to the park ranger. I'm pretty sure this is not a conversation I'd like to be having!
A long bridge into Pensacola ends our little island detour, and the temperature has climbed to 93F. I look at the route and decide to abandon the planned route and head to our son's house the fastest way. So I call up "KevHouse" on the GPS, and it routes us on I-110 north of Pensacola to I-10. We ride the remaining 125 miles on I-10, through the tunnel at Mobil, across the long bridge over the marsh near Pascagoula, and on to Gulfport.
From a riding perspective, US 98 has been a rewarding ride, one that I'd like to do again and again, from Tallahassee to, say, Tyndall Air Force base east of Panama City. From there until Pensacola, it's about 100 miles of strip malls, car dealerships, marine establishments, and thousands of high-rise and low-rise condos and vacation homes. The beaches appear spectacular and would definitely offer a spectacular place to stay, it's just not a great place to ride through. Those last hundred miles or so haven't offered a great ride but I always try to learn something from every experience. What I learned here is that my perspective of "beach" is somewhat narrow. I tend to think of East Coast beaches where there is a town or a 20-mile stretch of beach. Here, there are literally hundreds of miles of white-sand beaches where you can pick a spot, set up your picnic chair or a blanket, and soak up the sun almost year-round.
We fill up for one last fuel stop right in Gulfport. "I'm ready to be off this bike," says Kitty. I'm sure she's thinking more about the grandkids than the heat but it's been really hot all day and she suffers in the heat.
We pull into the driveway and unload our stuff, wait a few minutes for the grandkids to wake up from their naps, and have a joyous reunion when they wake up. The Virginia family has ridden their Gold Wing 1,352 miles the long slow way to see the Mississippi family.
I'll clean and cover the bike and trailer tonight, and then tomorrow we'll figure out if the rig fits into the garage with their minivan. Here we plan to be for the next five days over the Memorial Day weekend.
GPS Track, Day 5
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 4
Coastal Ways
Wednesday May 26, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
"Life is full of important choices" announces my t-shirt today. On the back are 18 different bass guitars. My choice today is to hug the coast, mostly on US 98, until we either reach Panama City or run out of time. It's a beautiful, cloudless morning, the first such on our trip. The temperature is a bit cool, with heat creeping around the edges of the day. This is differentiated from a warm morning with coolness creeping around the edges.
We ride out of Tallahassee through a park, and immediately stop to take some pictures of the Spanish moss draped over the live oak trees. A guy comes out of a house to walk his dog. "I guess this is just what you see every day," I say, "but to us it really looks exotic."
"The leaves are the biggest problem," he complains.
The GPS route calls for five hours of riding time, to which I estimate we will add three hours of poke-around time, for a total of a moderate eight hours to our destination. There are six state parks potentially on the itinerary for the day.
After a brief unsuccessful detour to the Leon Sinks Geological Area (unsuccessful because seeing the sinkholes involved several miles of trails and we aren't in the mood for that much walking today), we ride the periphery of Edward Ball Wakulla State Park, to which, interestingly enough, we never really find the entrance. The first real stop is St. Mark's National Wildlife Refuge, about 25 miles south. We fill out the paperwork and leave $5.00 in the envelope on the honor system. There's a road to the lighthouse, 7 miles farther south, which the GPS lists as "unpaved." But the park attendant assures us it's paved and we ride slowly to the lighthouse flanked by vast expanses of marshes and pools. At the lighthouse we walk along the levee and take pictures of the pelicans and cormorants sitting atop each available wooden pole from an old decrepit dock. I suppose it's like musical chairs: odd-bird-out.
Leaving the park, I realize we've already used up two hours of our poke-around time but then remember that we'll "gain" an hour today as we cross into the Central Time Zone at Appalachicola. We stop to use the rest rooms as we leave the park entrance, and Kitty keeps her helmet on. Walking back to the bike, she suddenly says "I hear that noise again!"
"You mean the buzzing?"
"No, it's kind of like a snapping or rattling sound."
She moves her head around and suddenly says "It's coming from somewhere in my skeletal system! That's what I was hearing on the bike yesterday!"
"Hmmm. We'll have you inspected for loose parts when we get home!" I say helpfully.
We leave US 98 west for US 319 for a while and ride to the entrance of Ochlockonee State Park but pass it up. After rejoining US 98 west as we travel toward Carrabelle, the highway is ruler-straight and lined with pine trees, a very pleasant if unassuming little ride.
Onward toward St. George Island State Park, where less tree cover exposes large expanses of the sparkling Gulf waters. The houses here are virtually all built on stilts, sometimes sitting impossibly tall and straight, small houses on tall stilts, others so large as to seem ungainly for stilt construction. "It seems like a hurricane would carry them away," says Kitty. One house seems certain of its foundation: Built of solid block, it sports a sign in the sandy lawn that says "Hurricane-proof!"
The bridge over Apalachicola Bay to St. George Island is four and a half miles long and curves gracefully over the dappled waters of the bay. We ride to the park and learn from the attendant at the entrance gate that there are eight miles of beach but only four and a half miles of paved roads. A great place I'm sure, but on a Gold Wing, not so much, so we retrace our steps through the brightly colored stilted houses set amid the shrub-covered sand dunes.
In Apalachicola we decide to stop for our impromptu lunch and the GPS routes us to a tiny park that's closed on Wednesday. It has a picnic bench under a live oak tree, though, and other than the ants that take over the picnic table, it's a great place for our little picnic. The temperature has been warm, mid-eighties, but the occasional cloud cover has kept us very comfortable.
Running west of Apalachicola, US 98 is once again straight and tree-lined on both sides. A seawall of large rocks greets our entrance to the peninsula that terminates in St. Joseph State Park. At the park entrance we ask the ranger what to expect. "Beaches, fishing, camping, boating," he replies.
"We do none of those things on our Gold Wing!" I laugh. So we circle around and retrace our route. The sand dunes here are more pronounced and larger than at any point on our trip.
On our way to the town of Port St. Joe we see a mama duck and her five baby ducklings crossing the road. In Port St. Joe we see a church sign that might qualify for our son Kevin's pantheon of Worst Church Signs: "Hang
out with Jesus. He hung out for you." We stop for a rest room break and I find Kitty longingly eyeing a display of Klondike bars. "Stop it!" I say. "Do not waste your ice cream allotment on something as prosaic as Klondike bars! Use your allotment on special ice cream!"
Running northwest on the straightest stretch of road yet, mile after mile, we eventually run onto the southern reaches of Tyndall Air Force Base and are treated to several fighter jets doing aerial maneuvers and the thunderous roar of another lifting off from a runway near the highway.
From Mexico Beach to Tyndall AFB to Panama City, I begin to realize I'm in some trouble. It's a 35-mile 4-lane stretch of shopping malls and car dealers, red lights and traffic. Each time we stop at a red light, I can feel Kitty's heel thumping on her foot rest: Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. From all the miles we've ridden, I know this is not a good sign.
But we do finally arrive at the Hampton Inn in Panama City Beach. Kitty flops face-down on the luxurious bed and gives me the corner of her eye. "You were in violation during the last hour!" she says seriously. I knew it! I just knew this was coming! A quick mental review of Kitty's Kardinal Rules for every motorcycle trip instantly reveals the problem: No snakes. No cities. No traffic. I have clearly violated Rule #3 and I have no defense!
Then her face dissolves into a big grin. "But it's nothing a nice dinner and a little ice cream couldn't fix!"
So I set about atoning for my sins. Normally we try to eat healthily and sparingly on our trips, but sometimes a man just has to do what a man has to do! We start by having a dozen raw oysters at Billy's, just a short walk from the hotel. They serve them New Orleans-style: Freshly shucked, little tins of cocktail sauce and horseradish, and with a plentiful supply of saltines. Break out a saltine, dip the oyster in a little cocktail sauce and a lot of horseradish, put it all on the saltine, and smush the whole thing down in one bite! Oh, yeah, oysters just don't get any better than this! We can't get oysters like this in Washington DC!
Next we walk a little farther to Capt. Anderson's Seafood Restaurant. The captain always abbreviates his title as "Capt." and operates a marina that features evening boat cruises on a large three-story vessel. After being seated by a perfect little table overlooking the marina, we both opt for charcoal-grilled amberjack, which is served with just the right amount of charring and is a feast for the taste buds. It's a memorable evening as the sun sets behind us and the lights come on in the marina and the hotels across the bay.
"Would you care for dessert?" asks David the waiter.
"Well, here's my situation," I say, and explain my predicament. "Is there an ice cream place we can walk to?" The nearest is Brewster's, he explains, but it's nearly a mile from here and there's no sidewalk.
"I can help!" David says. "Let me bring the dessert tray."
And indeed he can! Kitty selects a decadent nut-crusted chocolate-caramel-cake goopy thing with two scoops of ice cream, and we eat it all.
Back at the hotel, I ask if my transgressions have been atoned for.
"Quite!" she says with a contented little grin on her face.
By tomorrow night we should be seeing our grandbabies in Gulfport!
Wednesday May 26, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
"Life is full of important choices" announces my t-shirt today. On the back are 18 different bass guitars. My choice today is to hug the coast, mostly on US 98, until we either reach Panama City or run out of time. It's a beautiful, cloudless morning, the first such on our trip. The temperature is a bit cool, with heat creeping around the edges of the day. This is differentiated from a warm morning with coolness creeping around the edges.
We ride out of Tallahassee through a park, and immediately stop to take some pictures of the Spanish moss draped over the live oak trees. A guy comes out of a house to walk his dog. "I guess this is just what you see every day," I say, "but to us it really looks exotic."
"The leaves are the biggest problem," he complains.
The GPS route calls for five hours of riding time, to which I estimate we will add three hours of poke-around time, for a total of a moderate eight hours to our destination. There are six state parks potentially on the itinerary for the day.
After a brief unsuccessful detour to the Leon Sinks Geological Area (unsuccessful because seeing the sinkholes involved several miles of trails and we aren't in the mood for that much walking today), we ride the periphery of Edward Ball Wakulla State Park, to which, interestingly enough, we never really find the entrance. The first real stop is St. Mark's National Wildlife Refuge, about 25 miles south. We fill out the paperwork and leave $5.00 in the envelope on the honor system. There's a road to the lighthouse, 7 miles farther south, which the GPS lists as "unpaved." But the park attendant assures us it's paved and we ride slowly to the lighthouse flanked by vast expanses of marshes and pools. At the lighthouse we walk along the levee and take pictures of the pelicans and cormorants sitting atop each available wooden pole from an old decrepit dock. I suppose it's like musical chairs: odd-bird-out.Leaving the park, I realize we've already used up two hours of our poke-around time but then remember that we'll "gain" an hour today as we cross into the Central Time Zone at Appalachicola. We stop to use the rest rooms as we leave the park entrance, and Kitty keeps her helmet on. Walking back to the bike, she suddenly says "I hear that noise again!"
"You mean the buzzing?"
"No, it's kind of like a snapping or rattling sound."
She moves her head around and suddenly says "It's coming from somewhere in my skeletal system! That's what I was hearing on the bike yesterday!"
"Hmmm. We'll have you inspected for loose parts when we get home!" I say helpfully.
We leave US 98 west for US 319 for a while and ride to the entrance of Ochlockonee State Park but pass it up. After rejoining US 98 west as we travel toward Carrabelle, the highway is ruler-straight and lined with pine trees, a very pleasant if unassuming little ride.
Onward toward St. George Island State Park, where less tree cover exposes large expanses of the sparkling Gulf waters. The houses here are virtually all built on stilts, sometimes sitting impossibly tall and straight, small houses on tall stilts, others so large as to seem ungainly for stilt construction. "It seems like a hurricane would carry them away," says Kitty. One house seems certain of its foundation: Built of solid block, it sports a sign in the sandy lawn that says "Hurricane-proof!"
The bridge over Apalachicola Bay to St. George Island is four and a half miles long and curves gracefully over the dappled waters of the bay. We ride to the park and learn from the attendant at the entrance gate that there are eight miles of beach but only four and a half miles of paved roads. A great place I'm sure, but on a Gold Wing, not so much, so we retrace our steps through the brightly colored stilted houses set amid the shrub-covered sand dunes.In Apalachicola we decide to stop for our impromptu lunch and the GPS routes us to a tiny park that's closed on Wednesday. It has a picnic bench under a live oak tree, though, and other than the ants that take over the picnic table, it's a great place for our little picnic. The temperature has been warm, mid-eighties, but the occasional cloud cover has kept us very comfortable.
Running west of Apalachicola, US 98 is once again straight and tree-lined on both sides. A seawall of large rocks greets our entrance to the peninsula that terminates in St. Joseph State Park. At the park entrance we ask the ranger what to expect. "Beaches, fishing, camping, boating," he replies.
"We do none of those things on our Gold Wing!" I laugh. So we circle around and retrace our route. The sand dunes here are more pronounced and larger than at any point on our trip.
On our way to the town of Port St. Joe we see a mama duck and her five baby ducklings crossing the road. In Port St. Joe we see a church sign that might qualify for our son Kevin's pantheon of Worst Church Signs: "Hang
out with Jesus. He hung out for you." We stop for a rest room break and I find Kitty longingly eyeing a display of Klondike bars. "Stop it!" I say. "Do not waste your ice cream allotment on something as prosaic as Klondike bars! Use your allotment on special ice cream!"Running northwest on the straightest stretch of road yet, mile after mile, we eventually run onto the southern reaches of Tyndall Air Force Base and are treated to several fighter jets doing aerial maneuvers and the thunderous roar of another lifting off from a runway near the highway.
From Mexico Beach to Tyndall AFB to Panama City, I begin to realize I'm in some trouble. It's a 35-mile 4-lane stretch of shopping malls and car dealers, red lights and traffic. Each time we stop at a red light, I can feel Kitty's heel thumping on her foot rest: Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. From all the miles we've ridden, I know this is not a good sign.
But we do finally arrive at the Hampton Inn in Panama City Beach. Kitty flops face-down on the luxurious bed and gives me the corner of her eye. "You were in violation during the last hour!" she says seriously. I knew it! I just knew this was coming! A quick mental review of Kitty's Kardinal Rules for every motorcycle trip instantly reveals the problem: No snakes. No cities. No traffic. I have clearly violated Rule #3 and I have no defense!
Then her face dissolves into a big grin. "But it's nothing a nice dinner and a little ice cream couldn't fix!"
So I set about atoning for my sins. Normally we try to eat healthily and sparingly on our trips, but sometimes a man just has to do what a man has to do! We start by having a dozen raw oysters at Billy's, just a short walk from the hotel. They serve them New Orleans-style: Freshly shucked, little tins of cocktail sauce and horseradish, and with a plentiful supply of saltines. Break out a saltine, dip the oyster in a little cocktail sauce and a lot of horseradish, put it all on the saltine, and smush the whole thing down in one bite! Oh, yeah, oysters just don't get any better than this! We can't get oysters like this in Washington DC!
Next we walk a little farther to Capt. Anderson's Seafood Restaurant. The captain always abbreviates his title as "Capt." and operates a marina that features evening boat cruises on a large three-story vessel. After being seated by a perfect little table overlooking the marina, we both opt for charcoal-grilled amberjack, which is served with just the right amount of charring and is a feast for the taste buds. It's a memorable evening as the sun sets behind us and the lights come on in the marina and the hotels across the bay.
"Would you care for dessert?" asks David the waiter.
"Well, here's my situation," I say, and explain my predicament. "Is there an ice cream place we can walk to?" The nearest is Brewster's, he explains, but it's nearly a mile from here and there's no sidewalk.
"I can help!" David says. "Let me bring the dessert tray."
And indeed he can! Kitty selects a decadent nut-crusted chocolate-caramel-cake goopy thing with two scoops of ice cream, and we eat it all.
Back at the hotel, I ask if my transgressions have been atoned for.
"Quite!" she says with a contented little grin on her face.
By tomorrow night we should be seeing our grandbabies in Gulfport!
GPS Track Day 4
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 3
Canopy
Tuesday May 25, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
We sleep in a little longer this morning to make sure we don’t waste the excellent beds the Hampton Inn chain has placed in all its rooms. It’s the same style mattress used by the parent Hilton Hotels, and if I can’t be in my waterbed this is the next best thing.
Eventually, though, we have to get up and wake sleeping monster lying outside our room. We uncover it, raise the CB and radio antenna, and low and behold, it’s a Gold Wing motorcycle with a color-matched Escapade trailer! Once again it’s cloudy, but rain isn’t expected to move in until noon. We’ll be long south of here by then, headed toward Tallahassee, Florida. So once again we opt to ride without rain gear and after fueling the bike, we head southward on US 319 at about 9:00 AM.
We ride past miles of newly-planted fields whose gray sandy soil bears no hint of what is to grow there. We don’t know what’s planted there, but a good guess would probably be cotton or peanuts, judging by the number of both cotton gins and peanut processing plants, identified by the name of the company on the building.
Rolling southward, rain occasionally splatters onto the windshield but only in one brief section is there anything that could actually be called rain. The abandoned homes of yesterday have mostly but not entirely been replaced by well-maintained homes on beautifully landscaped property amid tall pine trees or stately pecan trees.
But the abandoned businesses are still present. I suspect that if one could do an inventory of businesses out here in the heartland of southern Georgia, there would be more abandoned than functioning. Amid the apparent pockets of prosperity there are still the haunting reminders of plans gone sadly awry.
“I hear a buzz,” Kitty says.
“Is this in your helmet?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, “because that’s where my ears are!” I don’t know what causes the buzzing, as I don’t hear it, but it’s a clever answer and we both laugh. After a while it’s gone.
We talk about our impressions of this ride. I wonder, if one could create a panel of impressions that register with both of us and then compare them, how many impressions would overlap? Naturally we often point out things of interest to each other. But then Kitty sees a “baby horse,” as she calls it, lying at its mother’s feet while I see the tail flukes of a life-size blue whale as its body disappears into someone’s lawn. I have no explanation for this but that’s what I see. Kitty sees a beautifully manicured and landscaped home at the same time I see the hulk of an abandoned house and wish it could talk. But in spite of our different impressions, or perhaps because of them, I often think it would be hard to improve on my lot in life: Riding a great motorcycle through an expansive countryside with a beautiful woman of exquisite sensitivity who actually loves to do this!
We hold US 319 through all its twists and turns as it is joined at various times by a bewildering variety of other route numbers. In Thomasville we stop for fuel and a lunch break, which usually consists of some carrots and peanut butter, maybe an apple or other fruit, sometimes something we pick up at a roadside stand.
When I insert my credit card at the gas pump, it displays a sign about seeing the attendant. “Sorry, Hon, we’re closed. Our whole system is down,” says the woman who greets me at the door. (As a sidebar, I’ve learned that the farther south you travel, the more likely it is that a waitress or a service station attendant will call you “Hon,” at least if that person is a woman and you are a man. I find this disconcerting but I believe I no longer cringe or look startled when this happens.)
I can’t help but point to the t-shirt I happen to be wearing today: “Temporarily Out of Service.” Everyone in the station gets a good laugh as we ride across the road to another venue.
We leave US 319 at this point and take local Route 122 for the last 10 miles or so into Florida. “Welcome to Leon County” says the small road at the state line. It’s a very unceremonious entry to Florida. Tallahassee is noted for a number of so-called “canopy roads”, where canopies of moss-festooned oak trees cover the highways that fan out of the city center like spokes of a wagon wheel. I’ve mapped the “Centerville Canopy Road” in honor of our hometown, so we ride the last 20 miles into Tallahassee under an exotic archway of giant live oaks draped with grey-green banners of Spanish moss. It’s been a light 195-mile day.
My friend Emma Wood and I haven’t seen each other in several years. We’ve run into each other in places that have
run together in our minds, from New York to Texas to North Carolina. We met once on a remote road in Utah, Kitty and I heading north, Emma headed south, just a 30-second conversation on CB but one we both remember because neither had any idea the other would be there. So we’ve been plotting so see if we could get together this trip. We finally hook up by phone, and she rides the 50 miles or so to meet us at a restaurant within walking distance to our hotel. After an evening of talking about rides, riding, family, and life, we wave good-bye as she literally rides her Gold Wing into the sunset toward her home.
After riding for nearly 900 miles through the fields and forests of Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and now Florida, we’ve gone almost as far south as we can go toward the Gulf coast. Tomorrow we hope to find some coastal routes as we head west.
Tuesday May 25, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
We sleep in a little longer this morning to make sure we don’t waste the excellent beds the Hampton Inn chain has placed in all its rooms. It’s the same style mattress used by the parent Hilton Hotels, and if I can’t be in my waterbed this is the next best thing.
Eventually, though, we have to get up and wake sleeping monster lying outside our room. We uncover it, raise the CB and radio antenna, and low and behold, it’s a Gold Wing motorcycle with a color-matched Escapade trailer! Once again it’s cloudy, but rain isn’t expected to move in until noon. We’ll be long south of here by then, headed toward Tallahassee, Florida. So once again we opt to ride without rain gear and after fueling the bike, we head southward on US 319 at about 9:00 AM.
We ride past miles of newly-planted fields whose gray sandy soil bears no hint of what is to grow there. We don’t know what’s planted there, but a good guess would probably be cotton or peanuts, judging by the number of both cotton gins and peanut processing plants, identified by the name of the company on the building.
Rolling southward, rain occasionally splatters onto the windshield but only in one brief section is there anything that could actually be called rain. The abandoned homes of yesterday have mostly but not entirely been replaced by well-maintained homes on beautifully landscaped property amid tall pine trees or stately pecan trees.
But the abandoned businesses are still present. I suspect that if one could do an inventory of businesses out here in the heartland of southern Georgia, there would be more abandoned than functioning. Amid the apparent pockets of prosperity there are still the haunting reminders of plans gone sadly awry.
“I hear a buzz,” Kitty says.
“Is this in your helmet?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, “because that’s where my ears are!” I don’t know what causes the buzzing, as I don’t hear it, but it’s a clever answer and we both laugh. After a while it’s gone.
We talk about our impressions of this ride. I wonder, if one could create a panel of impressions that register with both of us and then compare them, how many impressions would overlap? Naturally we often point out things of interest to each other. But then Kitty sees a “baby horse,” as she calls it, lying at its mother’s feet while I see the tail flukes of a life-size blue whale as its body disappears into someone’s lawn. I have no explanation for this but that’s what I see. Kitty sees a beautifully manicured and landscaped home at the same time I see the hulk of an abandoned house and wish it could talk. But in spite of our different impressions, or perhaps because of them, I often think it would be hard to improve on my lot in life: Riding a great motorcycle through an expansive countryside with a beautiful woman of exquisite sensitivity who actually loves to do this!
We hold US 319 through all its twists and turns as it is joined at various times by a bewildering variety of other route numbers. In Thomasville we stop for fuel and a lunch break, which usually consists of some carrots and peanut butter, maybe an apple or other fruit, sometimes something we pick up at a roadside stand.
When I insert my credit card at the gas pump, it displays a sign about seeing the attendant. “Sorry, Hon, we’re closed. Our whole system is down,” says the woman who greets me at the door. (As a sidebar, I’ve learned that the farther south you travel, the more likely it is that a waitress or a service station attendant will call you “Hon,” at least if that person is a woman and you are a man. I find this disconcerting but I believe I no longer cringe or look startled when this happens.)
I can’t help but point to the t-shirt I happen to be wearing today: “Temporarily Out of Service.” Everyone in the station gets a good laugh as we ride across the road to another venue.
We leave US 319 at this point and take local Route 122 for the last 10 miles or so into Florida. “Welcome to Leon County” says the small road at the state line. It’s a very unceremonious entry to Florida. Tallahassee is noted for a number of so-called “canopy roads”, where canopies of moss-festooned oak trees cover the highways that fan out of the city center like spokes of a wagon wheel. I’ve mapped the “Centerville Canopy Road” in honor of our hometown, so we ride the last 20 miles into Tallahassee under an exotic archway of giant live oaks draped with grey-green banners of Spanish moss. It’s been a light 195-mile day.My friend Emma Wood and I haven’t seen each other in several years. We’ve run into each other in places that have
run together in our minds, from New York to Texas to North Carolina. We met once on a remote road in Utah, Kitty and I heading north, Emma headed south, just a 30-second conversation on CB but one we both remember because neither had any idea the other would be there. So we’ve been plotting so see if we could get together this trip. We finally hook up by phone, and she rides the 50 miles or so to meet us at a restaurant within walking distance to our hotel. After an evening of talking about rides, riding, family, and life, we wave good-bye as she literally rides her Gold Wing into the sunset toward her home.After riding for nearly 900 miles through the fields and forests of Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and now Florida, we’ve gone almost as far south as we can go toward the Gulf coast. Tomorrow we hope to find some coastal routes as we head west.
GPS Track Day 3
Monday, May 24, 2010
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 2
Tall Trees in Georgia
Monday May 24, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
“It’s been great to see you, my friend,” I say as I shake Ray’s hand. I’ve just backed my Wing and the trailer out of his long driveway and we’re headed west and south. It’s just a little after 9:00 AM, later than I hoped after a bit of difficulty uploading yesterday’s blog text. We have two days to make Tallahassee, Florida, almost exactly 600 miles away. My GPS route is mostly on two-lane roads, so 300 miles is a nice two-lane ride. In Solo Guy fashion, I have not scoped out the likely intervening stopping points. We will ride until we feel like stopping for the night and find a place we like.
We roll southwest out Goldsboro, North Carolina, and after a brief stint on I-95 start our two-lane trek through North Carolina, across the expanse of South Carolina, and into the heartland of Georgia if we decide to ride that far. In spite of yesterday’s lessons regarding the proper Dance of the Rainsuit, I have once more opted to ride without rain gear. The weather radar display on my BlackBerry makes me think the front has moved out to sea, leaving only heavy cloud cover in its wake.
Almost immediately rain and mist spit down onto the windshield and I wonder if, after almost half a million miles of riding, I will never learn. Undaunted, we roll into the countryside under heavy but “fuzzy” clouds that I’ve learned seldom carry significant rain. At times the clouds are at ground level and produce a mist that mysteriously shrouds the open fields of corn and tobacco, and covers the windshield with tiny droplets. Other times the pelt down enough rain that the droplets form a graceful convex “V” characteristic of the big Tulsa windshield as it clears raindrops. But we never hit wet road or need rain gear.
We try to identify the crops in the expansive fields lying on both sides of the highway. Tobacco is easy because, well, it just looks like “baby tobacco.” Corn, sorghum, wheat, and oats are also relatively easy to identify. There are fields of beans whose green twin-leafed stalks are just pushing through the black soil. And there are fields that appear to have been planted recently, some with a hint of greenery as the plants push through the soil, but some too newly planted to identify any plant. We’re not sure when cotton is planted, but we wonder if it’s cotton: whatever it is, there’s a lot of it, hundreds or thousands of acres of bare fields that later in summer will be vibrant with whatever is germinating now.
I normally associate cypress swamps with more southerly states, but here we are, rolling through miles of cypress swamps with the characteristic black cypress boles that widen dramatically just above the water line.
We hold US 13 for many miles, a route that I call “easy country,” the kind of road that just makes me happy to be here. It’s not spectacular but it’s ever-changing and interesting as we roll at moderate speed through the countryside. We ride for 75 miles and never have a single vehicle in front or behind us, a delightful ride under clouds pregnant with moisture but never dropping their load of water on us. Kitty and I talk, as we have many times before, about how motorcycle riding is so different from the typical car ride. For most drivers, a trip is all about the starting and finishing points, and the “between” is an entity to be tolerated. For us, the “between” is the whole deal, where starting and finishing points have little relevance. It’s the ride that counts. Thus we find ourselves on the Slow Road, not the Short Road, and not the Long Road that Solo Guy loves. It’s just a ride to soak in the geography and the culture.
Riding into South Carolina, we pass through numerous little towns that slow us only briefly, for some don’t have as much as a single traffic light. I ride gently and with a certain reverence, for I become aware this is like riding through a landscape wrecked with the debris of a thousand shattered hopes and broken dreams, the detritus of a generation of lost hope. For every perfectly-maintained antebellum mansion with its perfectly-shuttered windows, set back from the street in a lush green lawn set about by giant magnolia trees that are just past their bloom – for every one of those homes, there are 10 broken-down and abandoned homes, and a dozen businesses that are shuttered and dark and dusty, many with windows broken out by mischievous teenagers. I am saddened as I wonder what stories these
hulks, relics of a now-defunct lifestyle, could say to me. I wonder what I could learn if they could teach me. In town after town, we ride through what used to be their little Main Street, and in some towns there appears to be not a single business open. What happened here? And what happened to the people who built these towns with hope and passion, and what keeps the remnant hanging on?
My reverie is interrupted by Jill, my GPS voice, saying in our headsets, “Drive 1.8 miles to three-eight-seven-fifteen-four-oh-one-bypass-west!” It’s one of the waypoints I’ve created near Bennettsville, South Carolina. Kitty and I both laugh and I press the “Speak” button to make Jill repeat this several more times.
We ride nearly 190 miles across the breadth of South Carolina, spending about 130 miles on I-20 even though I’ve billed this as a two-lane day. Without changing the trip parameters, it was difficult to find a way through South Carolina without using the Interstate. By the time we make Columbia, there’s as much sky as cloud cover. By the time we make the Georgia line at the Savannah River near Augusta, we ride under brilliant blue skies and just a few puffy white clouds.
Riding west of Augusta and out of the hilly banks of the Savannah River, we pass through miles and miles of pine trees. At the moment we are on US 1, which is four lanes wide here. “I like looking through the pine trees at the other side of the road,” Kitty comments. The pine trunks in the quarter-mile-wide median flit by like a million strobes as I steal a glance across to the northbound side. Georgia is justifiably noted for its stately pine trees, and I think of a cut from one of my all-time favorite CDs:
Tall trees in Georgia,
They grow so high
They shade me so
And sadly walking
Through the thicket I go
Buffy Sainte-Marie wrote this mournful ballad about turning down suitors in one’s youth, and now, in old age, none come around; but if you’ve never heard Eva Cassidy’s gut-wrenching cover of this tune, run, don’t walk, to your Google machine and find out the quickest way to get the CD “Eva Cassidy: Live at Blues Alley.” It may forever shape the way you think about the tall pine trees of Georgia.
By now it’s about 4:00 PM we have ridden over 300 miles, well into Georgia, and even though it’s early, decide to find a place to spend the night. Now I haven’t scoped out this trip segment at all, so we’re at the mercy of whatever we find. Approaching the town of Wrens, 10 miles distant, the GPS displays two motels and several restaurants. The next town is Louisville, about 12 miles beyond that. After that, it’s another 55 miles to the town of Dublin. We chat about this and decide to take whatever we find. In Wrens, one motel looks ok but we decide to ride on to Louisville where several motels and restaurants are listed. We decide to pass on the first one. Riding off the route to the second one, we find... nothing! No hint of an inn, no sign of a lodging establishment. We do see a Chamber of Commerce building that I suspect may at one time have been an inn.
“This has never happened to us before!” I say to Kitty in the headset. “That’s because I usually plan ahead! But this segment wasn’t scripted at all.”
We have two choices: Backtrack to Wrens, or ride 55 miles to Dublin, which is near I-16 and has plenty of services. “Let’s ride!” says Kitty.
And thus it is, on a day designated as a slow-down two-lane day, in 8.5 hours and with only 1 hour 17 minutes of stopping time, we accidentally ride 404 miles from Goldsboro, North Carolina, to Dublin, Georgia on 19 different route numbers that I can only recall by looking at the GPS route. I’d never try to ride such a convoluted route without a GPS! After checking in to the Hampton Inn we choose to walk a half mile to dinner.
“What was your favorite thing today?” I ask Kitty.
“Not having any rain!” she answers without hesitation.
Monday May 24, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
“It’s been great to see you, my friend,” I say as I shake Ray’s hand. I’ve just backed my Wing and the trailer out of his long driveway and we’re headed west and south. It’s just a little after 9:00 AM, later than I hoped after a bit of difficulty uploading yesterday’s blog text. We have two days to make Tallahassee, Florida, almost exactly 600 miles away. My GPS route is mostly on two-lane roads, so 300 miles is a nice two-lane ride. In Solo Guy fashion, I have not scoped out the likely intervening stopping points. We will ride until we feel like stopping for the night and find a place we like.
We roll southwest out Goldsboro, North Carolina, and after a brief stint on I-95 start our two-lane trek through North Carolina, across the expanse of South Carolina, and into the heartland of Georgia if we decide to ride that far. In spite of yesterday’s lessons regarding the proper Dance of the Rainsuit, I have once more opted to ride without rain gear. The weather radar display on my BlackBerry makes me think the front has moved out to sea, leaving only heavy cloud cover in its wake.
Almost immediately rain and mist spit down onto the windshield and I wonder if, after almost half a million miles of riding, I will never learn. Undaunted, we roll into the countryside under heavy but “fuzzy” clouds that I’ve learned seldom carry significant rain. At times the clouds are at ground level and produce a mist that mysteriously shrouds the open fields of corn and tobacco, and covers the windshield with tiny droplets. Other times the pelt down enough rain that the droplets form a graceful convex “V” characteristic of the big Tulsa windshield as it clears raindrops. But we never hit wet road or need rain gear.We try to identify the crops in the expansive fields lying on both sides of the highway. Tobacco is easy because, well, it just looks like “baby tobacco.” Corn, sorghum, wheat, and oats are also relatively easy to identify. There are fields of beans whose green twin-leafed stalks are just pushing through the black soil. And there are fields that appear to have been planted recently, some with a hint of greenery as the plants push through the soil, but some too newly planted to identify any plant. We’re not sure when cotton is planted, but we wonder if it’s cotton: whatever it is, there’s a lot of it, hundreds or thousands of acres of bare fields that later in summer will be vibrant with whatever is germinating now.
I normally associate cypress swamps with more southerly states, but here we are, rolling through miles of cypress swamps with the characteristic black cypress boles that widen dramatically just above the water line.
We hold US 13 for many miles, a route that I call “easy country,” the kind of road that just makes me happy to be here. It’s not spectacular but it’s ever-changing and interesting as we roll at moderate speed through the countryside. We ride for 75 miles and never have a single vehicle in front or behind us, a delightful ride under clouds pregnant with moisture but never dropping their load of water on us. Kitty and I talk, as we have many times before, about how motorcycle riding is so different from the typical car ride. For most drivers, a trip is all about the starting and finishing points, and the “between” is an entity to be tolerated. For us, the “between” is the whole deal, where starting and finishing points have little relevance. It’s the ride that counts. Thus we find ourselves on the Slow Road, not the Short Road, and not the Long Road that Solo Guy loves. It’s just a ride to soak in the geography and the culture.
Riding into South Carolina, we pass through numerous little towns that slow us only briefly, for some don’t have as much as a single traffic light. I ride gently and with a certain reverence, for I become aware this is like riding through a landscape wrecked with the debris of a thousand shattered hopes and broken dreams, the detritus of a generation of lost hope. For every perfectly-maintained antebellum mansion with its perfectly-shuttered windows, set back from the street in a lush green lawn set about by giant magnolia trees that are just past their bloom – for every one of those homes, there are 10 broken-down and abandoned homes, and a dozen businesses that are shuttered and dark and dusty, many with windows broken out by mischievous teenagers. I am saddened as I wonder what stories these
hulks, relics of a now-defunct lifestyle, could say to me. I wonder what I could learn if they could teach me. In town after town, we ride through what used to be their little Main Street, and in some towns there appears to be not a single business open. What happened here? And what happened to the people who built these towns with hope and passion, and what keeps the remnant hanging on?My reverie is interrupted by Jill, my GPS voice, saying in our headsets, “Drive 1.8 miles to three-eight-seven-fifteen-four-oh-one-bypass-west!” It’s one of the waypoints I’ve created near Bennettsville, South Carolina. Kitty and I both laugh and I press the “Speak” button to make Jill repeat this several more times.
We ride nearly 190 miles across the breadth of South Carolina, spending about 130 miles on I-20 even though I’ve billed this as a two-lane day. Without changing the trip parameters, it was difficult to find a way through South Carolina without using the Interstate. By the time we make Columbia, there’s as much sky as cloud cover. By the time we make the Georgia line at the Savannah River near Augusta, we ride under brilliant blue skies and just a few puffy white clouds.
Riding west of Augusta and out of the hilly banks of the Savannah River, we pass through miles and miles of pine trees. At the moment we are on US 1, which is four lanes wide here. “I like looking through the pine trees at the other side of the road,” Kitty comments. The pine trunks in the quarter-mile-wide median flit by like a million strobes as I steal a glance across to the northbound side. Georgia is justifiably noted for its stately pine trees, and I think of a cut from one of my all-time favorite CDs:Tall trees in Georgia,
They grow so high
They shade me so
And sadly walking
Through the thicket I go
Buffy Sainte-Marie wrote this mournful ballad about turning down suitors in one’s youth, and now, in old age, none come around; but if you’ve never heard Eva Cassidy’s gut-wrenching cover of this tune, run, don’t walk, to your Google machine and find out the quickest way to get the CD “Eva Cassidy: Live at Blues Alley.” It may forever shape the way you think about the tall pine trees of Georgia.
By now it’s about 4:00 PM we have ridden over 300 miles, well into Georgia, and even though it’s early, decide to find a place to spend the night. Now I haven’t scoped out this trip segment at all, so we’re at the mercy of whatever we find. Approaching the town of Wrens, 10 miles distant, the GPS displays two motels and several restaurants. The next town is Louisville, about 12 miles beyond that. After that, it’s another 55 miles to the town of Dublin. We chat about this and decide to take whatever we find. In Wrens, one motel looks ok but we decide to ride on to Louisville where several motels and restaurants are listed. We decide to pass on the first one. Riding off the route to the second one, we find... nothing! No hint of an inn, no sign of a lodging establishment. We do see a Chamber of Commerce building that I suspect may at one time have been an inn.
“This has never happened to us before!” I say to Kitty in the headset. “That’s because I usually plan ahead! But this segment wasn’t scripted at all.”
We have two choices: Backtrack to Wrens, or ride 55 miles to Dublin, which is near I-16 and has plenty of services. “Let’s ride!” says Kitty.
And thus it is, on a day designated as a slow-down two-lane day, in 8.5 hours and with only 1 hour 17 minutes of stopping time, we accidentally ride 404 miles from Goldsboro, North Carolina, to Dublin, Georgia on 19 different route numbers that I can only recall by looking at the GPS route. I’d never try to ride such a convoluted route without a GPS! After checking in to the Hampton Inn we choose to walk a half mile to dinner.
“What was your favorite thing today?” I ask Kitty.
“Not having any rain!” she answers without hesitation.
GPS Track Day 2
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 1
Showers II
Sunday May 23, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
At 2:40 AM I am awakened by torrential rain splattering forcefully on the metal bathroom vent atop the roof. At 5:00 AM I am awakened by a peal of thunder. I’d looked at the weather forecast, though, and the showers were predicted to diminish by late morning.
So we hang out until after 10:30, when the cloud cover is broken by patches of blue sky and the road is almost dry. Our destination today is our friend Ray and Deb’s house in North Carolina, only a 280-mile ride, so we’re in no hurry. The last of the luggage is loaded into the trailer and I hook it up to the bike and back it down the driveway. By now a fine mist is once again in the air and covering the windshield in a thin film. I’ve decided to forego the Dance of the Rainsuit, though, as the weather radar earlier showed the front to have been east of us.
Kitty is moving vehicles around, putting the car into the now-vacant garage, and moving the truck into the driveway. “The weather forecast on the radio says thunderstorms are moving in,” she warns. “Why don’t you want to put on rain gear?”
Sunday May 23, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
At 2:40 AM I am awakened by torrential rain splattering forcefully on the metal bathroom vent atop the roof. At 5:00 AM I am awakened by a peal of thunder. I’d looked at the weather forecast, though, and the showers were predicted to diminish by late morning.
So we hang out until after 10:30, when the cloud cover is broken by patches of blue sky and the road is almost dry. Our destination today is our friend Ray and Deb’s house in North Carolina, only a 280-mile ride, so we’re in no hurry. The last of the luggage is loaded into the trailer and I hook it up to the bike and back it down the driveway. By now a fine mist is once again in the air and covering the windshield in a thin film. I’ve decided to forego the Dance of the Rainsuit, though, as the weather radar earlier showed the front to have been east of us.
Kitty is moving vehicles around, putting the car into the now-vacant garage, and moving the truck into the driveway. “The weather forecast on the radio says thunderstorms are moving in,” she warns. “Why don’t you want to put on rain gear?”
“Because I think the front has moved through and we won’t really have much rain,” I respond confidently.
I chose poorly. Within eight miles we are sitting at a red light while the rain is pounding down on our leather gear and we are looking for shelter. I hadn’t fueled prior to starting out, so we need fuel as well. We find a gas station and park strategically downwind but the wind is so strong it is blowing the rain all the way through the gas pump shelter, soaking the cloth seat and us.
We do the Exaggerated Dance of the One-Piece Rainsuit under the shelter, exaggerated because when you’re already wet, it’s hard to slide the suits over the wet boots and clothing. “It’s sure nice having waterproof Cruiserworks boots,” I say to Kitty.
The sky is angry and dark, and the rain continues pounding down while we cover the cloth seat, switch a clear helmet shield for me, and fuel the bike. There is no reason we have to be riding in this downpour, so we opt to hang out for almost a half hour under the gas pump shelter, until the dark heart of the storm passes.
It’s still raining hard as we pull out onto US 29 south, and we ease gently into the flow of traffic and head southward toward US 17 and I-95. Sunday traffic is fairly light and the rain diminishes. By the time we reach Richmond the sky has cleared and it’s 85 degrees, so we stop for a little lunch break and take off the rain gear. I send Ray a text message that we are running late because of the rain.
I choose poorly. Thirty miles later we are beside the Interstate doing the Second Dance of the Rainsuit. It’s not raining much where we are, but just a quarter mile away we can see a seething mist on the road surface from the pelting rain.
For the next 150 miles we ride intermittently out of downpours and blue skies, through this very unsettled weather pattern. One storm covers about 60 miles as we ride through it, including 40 miles of 45-mph, four-way-flashers engaged, standing-water, minimum-visibility travel. I stay relaxed but alert, and when we finally take the exit off I-95 for the last 30 miles to Ray’s house, the road is drying and the sky has lightened once again.
I have never come to Ray’s house from this direction. Always from Jacksonville, or San Diego, or Atlanta, or Asheville, but not from the north. So I just follow the GPS-generated track over what to me are confusing North Carolina secondary roads. About five miles from his house, the road is blocked by an accident.
“Can we go straight through?” I ask the flagman.
“No, you have to turn right or left,” he responds.
Having no idea which is better, we turn left and the GPS generates a new route on yet more confusing North Carolina secondary roads. We arrive a little before 6:00 PM and Ray waves us into his carport. It is great to see our friends again. Ray and I have ridden together for more miles than anyone in our collective acquaintance, but he’s had to stop riding because of health issues. We’d done an emotional last ride together almost a year ago now, and hadn’t seen each other since.
At dinner, to which we travel in their new Honda Odyssey, another heavy storm moves through the area. “I almost always want to be on a bike,” I say, “but sometimes there are advantages to being in a car!” We enjoy a great evening of catching up, and he convinces me his Blu-Ray DVD player kicks up HDTV to yet another notch. Kitty and I don’t watch many movies but this is definitely awesome!
Tomorrow’s weather looks a little better than today, so I’ve done a minimal wipe-down of the bike and trailer, hedging my bets in case it’s sunny. It just won’t do to ride on a sunny day with water spots on the vehicle.
Tomorrow we plan to start wandering across North Carolina and Georgia, mostly on back roads.
Rainy or not, here we come!
GPS Track, Day 1
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Gulf Coast Getaway, Day 0
Showers
Saturday May 22, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Tomorrow Kitty and I plan to start our two-week two-up tour, our Gulf Coast Getaway, and today is Packing Day. We plan to wander southward to the Florida Panhandle and the Gulf Coast, and then spend 5 days with our Mississippi family before heading home. Our original plans had to be modified a bit because Kitty has a seminar she needs to attend on Saturday June 5, so we’ll be getting home two days earlier than we might, and I had to reverse all my GPS routes to accommodate the changes.
But instead of packing, we’re heading to a baby shower for my niece who lives about 100 miles away in Harrisonburg, Virginia. We’d more or less planned to take the Gold Wing to the baby shower but there are rain showers all over the area, so we opt for the comfort of our SUV. I’m not the most frequent attendee of baby showers but I hated to send Kitty up there by herself to find her way in what to her is an unfamiliar area. In spite of the fact that I feel a certain urgency to be packing, I relax and enjoy the time with various family members and meeting some new people. Among all those women at the shower, there are four guys. My creative and clever sister has strategically placed tiny baby clothes on a makeshift clothesline draped in front of their large high-definition television screen, apparently to make sure the party doesn’t get co-opted by Guys Watching Sports.
When we get home at around 5:00 PM I slowly start packing and fitting things into the trailer and saddlebags while Kitty does the last laundry for the trip. It’s a bit of a different packing technique than usual because we will be spending five days in Gulf Coast shorts-and-flip-flops weather at Kevin’s house. Don’t you just hate those long walks on the beach in long jeans and motorcycle riding boots?
I’d detailed the bike and trailer last weekend, so there’s little to do in terms of cleaning or polishing. Using my digital air pressure gauge, I carefully make sure the air pressure in the trailer and bike tires is perfect for the estimated load we’ll be carrying: 21 psi for the trailer tires, 20 psi for the trailer suspension, 33 psi for the front bike tire, 41 psi for the rear. For all those years when I ran Dunlop Elite series tires on my Gold Wing, I always inflated to the maximum recommended pressure of 41 psi, but with this Michelin StreetPilot GT set I’m running manufacturer’s inflation specifications. We’ll see how that works out – after about 8,000 miles there’s no sign of wear front or rear so the early results of my experiment seem positive.
I have a moment of panic when I can’t find the locking pin for the trailer hitch. Then I remember I bought a new key-lock system last year and had put it into one of the interior side pockets of the trailer when I last parked it. I treat all the locks and fittings on both the bike and trailer with WD-40 oil and my preparations are complete. Extra tools are packed; GPS routes and waypoints are loaded and the GPS is mounted on the bike: we are taking along an extra bag filled with memorabilia from Kevin’s childhood that Kitty figures rightfully belong with him; the laundry is done and our bags are packed.
Tomorrow I imagine we will need to do the Dance of Rainsuit before heading southward for a lazy day’s ride. I fall asleep dreaming of leaky rainsuits that strangely enough, pool water on the inside of my waterproof Cruiserworks riding boots and soak my socks.
Saturday May 22, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Tomorrow Kitty and I plan to start our two-week two-up tour, our Gulf Coast Getaway, and today is Packing Day. We plan to wander southward to the Florida Panhandle and the Gulf Coast, and then spend 5 days with our Mississippi family before heading home. Our original plans had to be modified a bit because Kitty has a seminar she needs to attend on Saturday June 5, so we’ll be getting home two days earlier than we might, and I had to reverse all my GPS routes to accommodate the changes.
But instead of packing, we’re heading to a baby shower for my niece who lives about 100 miles away in Harrisonburg, Virginia. We’d more or less planned to take the Gold Wing to the baby shower but there are rain showers all over the area, so we opt for the comfort of our SUV. I’m not the most frequent attendee of baby showers but I hated to send Kitty up there by herself to find her way in what to her is an unfamiliar area. In spite of the fact that I feel a certain urgency to be packing, I relax and enjoy the time with various family members and meeting some new people. Among all those women at the shower, there are four guys. My creative and clever sister has strategically placed tiny baby clothes on a makeshift clothesline draped in front of their large high-definition television screen, apparently to make sure the party doesn’t get co-opted by Guys Watching Sports.
When we get home at around 5:00 PM I slowly start packing and fitting things into the trailer and saddlebags while Kitty does the last laundry for the trip. It’s a bit of a different packing technique than usual because we will be spending five days in Gulf Coast shorts-and-flip-flops weather at Kevin’s house. Don’t you just hate those long walks on the beach in long jeans and motorcycle riding boots?
I’d detailed the bike and trailer last weekend, so there’s little to do in terms of cleaning or polishing. Using my digital air pressure gauge, I carefully make sure the air pressure in the trailer and bike tires is perfect for the estimated load we’ll be carrying: 21 psi for the trailer tires, 20 psi for the trailer suspension, 33 psi for the front bike tire, 41 psi for the rear. For all those years when I ran Dunlop Elite series tires on my Gold Wing, I always inflated to the maximum recommended pressure of 41 psi, but with this Michelin StreetPilot GT set I’m running manufacturer’s inflation specifications. We’ll see how that works out – after about 8,000 miles there’s no sign of wear front or rear so the early results of my experiment seem positive.
I have a moment of panic when I can’t find the locking pin for the trailer hitch. Then I remember I bought a new key-lock system last year and had put it into one of the interior side pockets of the trailer when I last parked it. I treat all the locks and fittings on both the bike and trailer with WD-40 oil and my preparations are complete. Extra tools are packed; GPS routes and waypoints are loaded and the GPS is mounted on the bike: we are taking along an extra bag filled with memorabilia from Kevin’s childhood that Kitty figures rightfully belong with him; the laundry is done and our bags are packed.
Tomorrow I imagine we will need to do the Dance of Rainsuit before heading southward for a lazy day’s ride. I fall asleep dreaming of leaky rainsuits that strangely enough, pool water on the inside of my waterproof Cruiserworks riding boots and soak my socks.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Crawfish Caper, Day 6
Together
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
I check the Weather Channel and see that there will be no escaping the rain for me on this day. Here in Kingsport, Tennessee, it’s 62F now, and I reflect on how to dress for the day’s ride. I’m wearing just a T-shirt
(well, not just a T-shirt!), and with the rain gear, I often add only one layer: An old sweatshirt that always travels with me in the right-hand saddlebag. Kitty always laughs when I wear this thing and won’t let me wear it in public because we got it probably 20 years ago in Ocean City, Maryland during a cold snap in August; it has something like a big square target on the back. In addition to the sweatshirt, if the weather is chilly, I also take out the jacket liner from my leather jacket and put it on under the sweatshirt, thus adding another layer of effective insulation. I imagine the weather will get cooler as I ride into the rain, so I add the insulated jacket liner and the sweatshirt even though I’m instantly too warm.
I chat with Blair and Blair and learn that they are heading for Memphis today and have likewise decided to dress in their rain gear even though it’s not raining at the moment here.
I have not cleaned the bike so it is adorned with filthy water spots from yesterday’s ride. I fight my instinct to clean them off. It’s like a Pavlovian response to me: See water spots, clean. See fingerprints, clean. See dust on finish, brush with lambs-wool duster. At end of day, wax and polish.
As I back out of my parking space, I notice that the front wheel leaves a tire track and I realize it’s because last evening in the darkness, I parked right in the middle of a giant grease slick — the accumulated engine
droppings of countless cars parked in that same parking space! So now my front wheel is covered with oil! Even as I gently apply the front brake to stop my backwards progress, it slides! And as soon as I move forward, my
rear wheel will also covered with oil, having picked up the oil track the front wheel has graciously laid down. The pavement is dry, but even so, I am more than extraordinarily careful as I ease out of the parking lot, onto
the street, and navigate to the on-ramp of northbound I-81. I imagine that in a few miles the oil is off the tires, but I’m very cautious for quite a few miles before leaning into any corners or lane changes.
I stop for fuel within the first 40 miles. Solo Guy doesn’t always fuel up when he starts the day unless it’s with a group or an Ironbutt timed run. It’s still 62F and I’ve been riding with my rain suit open at the top to
keep cool. After fueling I run to the men’s rest room. There’s a sign that says “No key required. If the door is locked, someone is inside.” I knock on the door and get no response, so I push the door open and walk inside,
and am startled to find someone already there. Then I realize that he is more startled than I, because I’m wearing my full rain gear and haven’t removed my helmet. To an unsuspecting men’s bathroom user, I must look like someone from outer space!
The rain starts in earnest 120 miles into Virginia on I-81. It’s heavy, sustained, and unabated. I’d forgotten to treat my Tulsa windshield at the first fuel stop; the accumulated pounding of falling rain and road spray from 300 miles of Interstate travel has taken its tolland the windshield isn’t clearing as well as I’d like. Nevertheless, I’m able to ride at speed and decide to wait until the next fuel stop to re-apply the “210” windshield polish I routinely use on my windshield.
Now I’m glad I added the extra layer of my jacket liner, as the temperature drops to 45F and stays there for the duration of the trip. I’m warm and dry as I ride out the miles toward home. My hands are a little chilly, though. I use SealSkinz gloves (http://www.sealskinz.com), from a company that manufactures diving suits. These gloves are extremely competent wet-weather riding gloves, completely dry, with gripper dots on the palms and fingers to provide a great feel for the control surfaces on the handlebars. However, they do not offer much insulation and they have an outer layer that is, ironically enough, water-absorbent, which leads to additional heat loss by evaporation. It’s the only negative I’ve found in these otherwise spectacular gloves: They don’t provide much heat retention at 50F or below in rain.
I run north on I-81 in moderate to heavy rain to Mile Marker 300, where I-66 splits off for what is usually my last 50-mile leg on a homeward journey. One benefit of the rain is that the Shenandoah Valley, which only 5 days ago
reeked with the stench of manure spread onto the fields, now has only faint vestiges of that odor. At one point on I-66, always the coldest spot in the area, the temperature drops to 39F. I would not be dressed for sustained riding in this temperature! The rain finally stops about 18 miles from home and I finish the ride on wet pavement but without rain.
I’ve ridden 370 miles today, most of it in rain. About 600 miles of rain in the last two days, in fact. I don’t mind riding in rain but it’s never as relaxing as a sunny day: You have only one chance to get it right on a motorcycle, and a moment’s lapse or a moment’s misjudgment can have disastrous consequences. The vinyl rain cover for the passenger backrest has blown off somewhere on I-66 so I’ll have to see about ordering a new one. I had checked the antifreeze level at Kevin’s house in Mississippi, and while it was down a little, the level was ok. I’ll top it off before the next trip.
And who knew, when fighting 95-degree temperatures on I-20 down there in Mississippi, that I’d be riding in 40-degree temperatures several days later! If there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s that I had no lessons learned. I was prepared with multiple layers of clothing and rain gear. If I came close to the edge of comfort for riding in the weather I encountered, it was the gloves. For sustained riding in temperatures below 50F, I would take a heavier pair of gloves and my old Aerostich “lobster-claw” gauntlets, which are three-fingered waterproof gauntlets that will fit over a heavier
glove and do an admirable job in keeping the hands warm and dry. SealSkinz gloves are unsurpassed in dexterity and operation of control surfaces, but the lobster-claws can offer comfortable wet-weather riding in a much wider range of temperatures.
I pull into the driveway and Kitty runs out to greet me. “I’ve been a little troubled, leaving you alone on Mother’s Day,” I say.
“It’s ok,” she says. “I’m just glad you could see your friends and spend a little time with our family.” She has a hot cup of Gevalia coffee waiting.
I pull the bike into the garage without cleaning it.
In Nova Scotia a couple years ago, in a delightful rustic out-of-the-way inn called the Shipwright Inn, Kitty and I saw a sign that eventually became the title of that trip: “Together is the Best Place to Be.” It resonates with
us. Solo Guy enjoys his time and space, and revels in the opportunity to do a ride where he can do just as he pleases. But at the end of the trip, at the end of the day, at the end of anything, I always want to come home to
Kitty.
“Together” works better for me than anything!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
I check the Weather Channel and see that there will be no escaping the rain for me on this day. Here in Kingsport, Tennessee, it’s 62F now, and I reflect on how to dress for the day’s ride. I’m wearing just a T-shirt
(well, not just a T-shirt!), and with the rain gear, I often add only one layer: An old sweatshirt that always travels with me in the right-hand saddlebag. Kitty always laughs when I wear this thing and won’t let me wear it in public because we got it probably 20 years ago in Ocean City, Maryland during a cold snap in August; it has something like a big square target on the back. In addition to the sweatshirt, if the weather is chilly, I also take out the jacket liner from my leather jacket and put it on under the sweatshirt, thus adding another layer of effective insulation. I imagine the weather will get cooler as I ride into the rain, so I add the insulated jacket liner and the sweatshirt even though I’m instantly too warm.
I chat with Blair and Blair and learn that they are heading for Memphis today and have likewise decided to dress in their rain gear even though it’s not raining at the moment here.
I have not cleaned the bike so it is adorned with filthy water spots from yesterday’s ride. I fight my instinct to clean them off. It’s like a Pavlovian response to me: See water spots, clean. See fingerprints, clean. See dust on finish, brush with lambs-wool duster. At end of day, wax and polish.
As I back out of my parking space, I notice that the front wheel leaves a tire track and I realize it’s because last evening in the darkness, I parked right in the middle of a giant grease slick — the accumulated engine
droppings of countless cars parked in that same parking space! So now my front wheel is covered with oil! Even as I gently apply the front brake to stop my backwards progress, it slides! And as soon as I move forward, my
rear wheel will also covered with oil, having picked up the oil track the front wheel has graciously laid down. The pavement is dry, but even so, I am more than extraordinarily careful as I ease out of the parking lot, onto
the street, and navigate to the on-ramp of northbound I-81. I imagine that in a few miles the oil is off the tires, but I’m very cautious for quite a few miles before leaning into any corners or lane changes.
I stop for fuel within the first 40 miles. Solo Guy doesn’t always fuel up when he starts the day unless it’s with a group or an Ironbutt timed run. It’s still 62F and I’ve been riding with my rain suit open at the top to
keep cool. After fueling I run to the men’s rest room. There’s a sign that says “No key required. If the door is locked, someone is inside.” I knock on the door and get no response, so I push the door open and walk inside,
and am startled to find someone already there. Then I realize that he is more startled than I, because I’m wearing my full rain gear and haven’t removed my helmet. To an unsuspecting men’s bathroom user, I must look like someone from outer space!
The rain starts in earnest 120 miles into Virginia on I-81. It’s heavy, sustained, and unabated. I’d forgotten to treat my Tulsa windshield at the first fuel stop; the accumulated pounding of falling rain and road spray from 300 miles of Interstate travel has taken its tolland the windshield isn’t clearing as well as I’d like. Nevertheless, I’m able to ride at speed and decide to wait until the next fuel stop to re-apply the “210” windshield polish I routinely use on my windshield.
Now I’m glad I added the extra layer of my jacket liner, as the temperature drops to 45F and stays there for the duration of the trip. I’m warm and dry as I ride out the miles toward home. My hands are a little chilly, though. I use SealSkinz gloves (http://www.sealskinz.com), from a company that manufactures diving suits. These gloves are extremely competent wet-weather riding gloves, completely dry, with gripper dots on the palms and fingers to provide a great feel for the control surfaces on the handlebars. However, they do not offer much insulation and they have an outer layer that is, ironically enough, water-absorbent, which leads to additional heat loss by evaporation. It’s the only negative I’ve found in these otherwise spectacular gloves: They don’t provide much heat retention at 50F or below in rain.
I run north on I-81 in moderate to heavy rain to Mile Marker 300, where I-66 splits off for what is usually my last 50-mile leg on a homeward journey. One benefit of the rain is that the Shenandoah Valley, which only 5 days ago
reeked with the stench of manure spread onto the fields, now has only faint vestiges of that odor. At one point on I-66, always the coldest spot in the area, the temperature drops to 39F. I would not be dressed for sustained riding in this temperature! The rain finally stops about 18 miles from home and I finish the ride on wet pavement but without rain.
I’ve ridden 370 miles today, most of it in rain. About 600 miles of rain in the last two days, in fact. I don’t mind riding in rain but it’s never as relaxing as a sunny day: You have only one chance to get it right on a motorcycle, and a moment’s lapse or a moment’s misjudgment can have disastrous consequences. The vinyl rain cover for the passenger backrest has blown off somewhere on I-66 so I’ll have to see about ordering a new one. I had checked the antifreeze level at Kevin’s house in Mississippi, and while it was down a little, the level was ok. I’ll top it off before the next trip.
And who knew, when fighting 95-degree temperatures on I-20 down there in Mississippi, that I’d be riding in 40-degree temperatures several days later! If there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s that I had no lessons learned. I was prepared with multiple layers of clothing and rain gear. If I came close to the edge of comfort for riding in the weather I encountered, it was the gloves. For sustained riding in temperatures below 50F, I would take a heavier pair of gloves and my old Aerostich “lobster-claw” gauntlets, which are three-fingered waterproof gauntlets that will fit over a heavier
glove and do an admirable job in keeping the hands warm and dry. SealSkinz gloves are unsurpassed in dexterity and operation of control surfaces, but the lobster-claws can offer comfortable wet-weather riding in a much wider range of temperatures.
I pull into the driveway and Kitty runs out to greet me. “I’ve been a little troubled, leaving you alone on Mother’s Day,” I say.
“It’s ok,” she says. “I’m just glad you could see your friends and spend a little time with our family.” She has a hot cup of Gevalia coffee waiting.
I pull the bike into the garage without cleaning it.
In Nova Scotia a couple years ago, in a delightful rustic out-of-the-way inn called the Shipwright Inn, Kitty and I saw a sign that eventually became the title of that trip: “Together is the Best Place to Be.” It resonates with
us. Solo Guy enjoys his time and space, and revels in the opportunity to do a ride where he can do just as he pleases. But at the end of the trip, at the end of the day, at the end of anything, I always want to come home to
Kitty.
“Together” works better for me than anything!
Crawfish Caper, Day 5
Rainy Days and Mondays
Monday, May 10, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Goodbyes are the hardest. But shortly before 9:00 AM, I am saying goodbye to my Mississippi family and with a wave and a little toot on the horn, ride slowly away. Away from the hugs of my grandbabies (they’re not really babies anymore, it just seems good for a grandpa to call them that) and the family. Off toward home, which is one of my other most favorite places to be, and toward Kitty, who’s my most favorite person to be with.
I’d taken a quick look at the Weather Channel and it doesn’t look like I can outrun the large weather pattern that has spawned giant red splotches on the Oklahoma map and extends eastward across the country. The severe weather won’t reach me today, but rain appears inevitable.
But for now, it’s a beautiful and sunny cool morning as I head up Rt. 49, fuel within the first 60 miles, and pick up I-55 at Meridian. By that time I’m under a light cloud cover. At the Alabama line, rain spits onto my windshield and there’s evidence of recent rain, but I at 250 miles an my second fuel stop at 12:30, I haven’t hit any rain although I’m under heavy overcast skies. I check the GPS: 67.5 mph trip average. This is Ironbutt territory, where 62.5 mph is required to ride 1,500 miles in 24 hours. I am feeling great, and Solo Guy is thinking he might want to ride the thousand-plus miles home in one stretch.
It’s gotten steadily cooler as I ride deeper into the large weather pattern and I’ve been closing vents and opening heat vents. Now, at about 60F, I switch to a slightly heavier summer pair of gloves and add the jacket liner.
I hit real rain at 2:00 PM, 330 miles into the trip, between Birmingham and Gadsden, Alabama. So I do the Dance of the One-Piece Motoport Rainsuit. I have waterproof Cruiserworks riding boots, so no change-out necessary there, and I don my SealSkinz rain gloves. In a rare moment of lucidity, I remember to keep my key out of my jeans pocket before zipping up.
For the next 85 miles the rain is steady and sometimes heavy. During the heavy stretches, I switch off cruise control as I always do when there may be standing water on the road. Motorcycle tires by nature are not prone to hydroplaning as a car tire might in heavy water but there have still been reports of cruise control sensors gone wild if the front wheel (which generates the sensor pulses) breaks free of pavement contact, making the cruise control brain think it needs to speed up. So just when you want to be slowing down, your cruise control is speeding you up!
The rain continues unabated through Georgia, Chattanooga, and Knoxville as I pick up the routes eventually leading to I-81 north. Even with the rain, Solo Guy is feeling the Long Road and wants to ride the rest of the way home. I’ve lost an hour and would arrive at about 2:00 AM. This has been one of my best riding days ever. I am startled when I check the elapsed time on the GPS and find I’ve been riding for over eight hours. I feel like I just started. I haven’t listened to the radio or any music. I’ve thinking about my family and the ties that keep us together when we’re apart.
By dusk, I switch on a radio station to check the weather reports. I haven’t checked WeatherBug on my BlackBerry. It’s still raining, although I seem to riding out of the worst of it. But unless it’s necessary, I prefer not to ride in rain at night. Tonight it isn’t necessary, so eventually I make a reluctant stop in Kingsport, Tennessee after 655 miles. It has been a spectacular riding day and I’m finding it really hard to stop. This whole day was just a unique Solo Guy groove! I never felt tired, never felt the need to take a break. Fuel stops were made only because they are necessary. Rainy days and Mondays have no effect on Solo Guy!
At the hotel I meet two bikers whose names turn out to be Blair and Blair, doing something like a 32-day memorial ride tour. They write a blog about their adventures at http://www.goodrides.webs.com/.
I check the Weather Channel in the hotel and decide tomorrow will be more of the same. In a rare concession to reality, I cover the bike but don’t bother cleaning it.
Tomorrow’s ride home awaits!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Goodbyes are the hardest. But shortly before 9:00 AM, I am saying goodbye to my Mississippi family and with a wave and a little toot on the horn, ride slowly away. Away from the hugs of my grandbabies (they’re not really babies anymore, it just seems good for a grandpa to call them that) and the family. Off toward home, which is one of my other most favorite places to be, and toward Kitty, who’s my most favorite person to be with.
I’d taken a quick look at the Weather Channel and it doesn’t look like I can outrun the large weather pattern that has spawned giant red splotches on the Oklahoma map and extends eastward across the country. The severe weather won’t reach me today, but rain appears inevitable.
But for now, it’s a beautiful and sunny cool morning as I head up Rt. 49, fuel within the first 60 miles, and pick up I-55 at Meridian. By that time I’m under a light cloud cover. At the Alabama line, rain spits onto my windshield and there’s evidence of recent rain, but I at 250 miles an my second fuel stop at 12:30, I haven’t hit any rain although I’m under heavy overcast skies. I check the GPS: 67.5 mph trip average. This is Ironbutt territory, where 62.5 mph is required to ride 1,500 miles in 24 hours. I am feeling great, and Solo Guy is thinking he might want to ride the thousand-plus miles home in one stretch.
It’s gotten steadily cooler as I ride deeper into the large weather pattern and I’ve been closing vents and opening heat vents. Now, at about 60F, I switch to a slightly heavier summer pair of gloves and add the jacket liner.
I hit real rain at 2:00 PM, 330 miles into the trip, between Birmingham and Gadsden, Alabama. So I do the Dance of the One-Piece Motoport Rainsuit. I have waterproof Cruiserworks riding boots, so no change-out necessary there, and I don my SealSkinz rain gloves. In a rare moment of lucidity, I remember to keep my key out of my jeans pocket before zipping up.
For the next 85 miles the rain is steady and sometimes heavy. During the heavy stretches, I switch off cruise control as I always do when there may be standing water on the road. Motorcycle tires by nature are not prone to hydroplaning as a car tire might in heavy water but there have still been reports of cruise control sensors gone wild if the front wheel (which generates the sensor pulses) breaks free of pavement contact, making the cruise control brain think it needs to speed up. So just when you want to be slowing down, your cruise control is speeding you up!
The rain continues unabated through Georgia, Chattanooga, and Knoxville as I pick up the routes eventually leading to I-81 north. Even with the rain, Solo Guy is feeling the Long Road and wants to ride the rest of the way home. I’ve lost an hour and would arrive at about 2:00 AM. This has been one of my best riding days ever. I am startled when I check the elapsed time on the GPS and find I’ve been riding for over eight hours. I feel like I just started. I haven’t listened to the radio or any music. I’ve thinking about my family and the ties that keep us together when we’re apart.
By dusk, I switch on a radio station to check the weather reports. I haven’t checked WeatherBug on my BlackBerry. It’s still raining, although I seem to riding out of the worst of it. But unless it’s necessary, I prefer not to ride in rain at night. Tonight it isn’t necessary, so eventually I make a reluctant stop in Kingsport, Tennessee after 655 miles. It has been a spectacular riding day and I’m finding it really hard to stop. This whole day was just a unique Solo Guy groove! I never felt tired, never felt the need to take a break. Fuel stops were made only because they are necessary. Rainy days and Mondays have no effect on Solo Guy!
At the hotel I meet two bikers whose names turn out to be Blair and Blair, doing something like a 32-day memorial ride tour. They write a blog about their adventures at http://www.goodrides.webs.com/.
I check the Weather Channel in the hotel and decide tomorrow will be more of the same. In a rare concession to reality, I cover the bike but don’t bother cleaning it.
Tomorrow’s ride home awaits!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Crawfish Caper, Day 4
Twenty-Nine Point Five
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
After getting out of bed this morning, I carefully replace the large fuzzy yellow stuffed animal I’d found sleeping there last night. I’m not sure what he did in the hours he was deposed from the bed, but I imagine my creative granddaughter will have plans for him later.
I’m still trying to find normalcy in being a thousand miles from Kitty on Mother’s Day, but she had really encouraged me to do this ride, and we exchange several text messages during the morning.
Since Kevin is the pastor of their church, he usually goes to work early on Sunday morning. Kristal and the kids go later. I could ride in the van with them, but decide that since I came on the bike, to church I’ll go on the bike. I’m dressed in riding boots and jeans but that seems to be a normal look at this church. I enjoy the chance to once again meet my Harley-Davidson-riding friend James and the team at church.
Afterwards, all the mothers get to choose a long-stemmed rose from a giant vase in the front of the sanctuary. Kristal holds out one of the red roses while I take a picture and send it to Kitty. Is it really the thought that counts?
After a Mother’s Day lunch at the Back Bay Seafood Restaurant in Gulfport, we head back to the house in our three different vehicles. The remainder of the day passes in a lazy nap, talking to Kitty, calling my own mother, chasing kids around the yard, and bedtime stories.
My GPS says I’ve traveled 29.5 miles on my Gold Wing today, but the memories of this day are a priceless treasure. It reminds me that while Solo Guy may often rack up well over 1,000 miles in a day, when you’re a grandpa, 29.5 can be exactly the right number.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
After getting out of bed this morning, I carefully replace the large fuzzy yellow stuffed animal I’d found sleeping there last night. I’m not sure what he did in the hours he was deposed from the bed, but I imagine my creative granddaughter will have plans for him later.
I’m still trying to find normalcy in being a thousand miles from Kitty on Mother’s Day, but she had really encouraged me to do this ride, and we exchange several text messages during the morning.
Since Kevin is the pastor of their church, he usually goes to work early on Sunday morning. Kristal and the kids go later. I could ride in the van with them, but decide that since I came on the bike, to church I’ll go on the bike. I’m dressed in riding boots and jeans but that seems to be a normal look at this church. I enjoy the chance to once again meet my Harley-Davidson-riding friend James and the team at church.
Afterwards, all the mothers get to choose a long-stemmed rose from a giant vase in the front of the sanctuary. Kristal holds out one of the red roses while I take a picture and send it to Kitty. Is it really the thought that counts?
After a Mother’s Day lunch at the Back Bay Seafood Restaurant in Gulfport, we head back to the house in our three different vehicles. The remainder of the day passes in a lazy nap, talking to Kitty, calling my own mother, chasing kids around the yard, and bedtime stories.
My GPS says I’ve traveled 29.5 miles on my Gold Wing today, but the memories of this day are a priceless treasure. It reminds me that while Solo Guy may often rack up well over 1,000 miles in a day, when you’re a grandpa, 29.5 can be exactly the right number.
Crawfish Caper, Day 3
Metamorphosis
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Overnight a strong weather front with torrential but short-lived downpours moved through the Vicksburg area, leaving behind a beautiful crisp day with temperatures in the 70’s, perfect for a ride. Most of the riders are out drying off their rain covers, some draped across the second-story balcony railings, flapping in the breeze like giant flags of questionable origin.
We are to form up at 9:00 AM for the group ride today. After a leisurely breakfast, my bike cover has dried but several towels are soaked, so I stow them as best I can. The cover generally protects the entire bike but it is not waterproof, so in a heavy rain some water always soaks in the cloth covered seat. I climb onto the seat to move the bike to a place in line, and immediately my entire rear end and inside of my thighs are soaked.
I move my Wing into line and dismount. Jack Sides, apparently seeing my soaking wet behind, walks over and says, “Beachy! How many years have you had that cloth seat? And how many times have you had to dry it after an overnight rain? Can’t take you anywhere without Kitty!”
As the bikes are starting up, I suddenly notice a couple teaspoons of antifreeze on the pavement under my bike! I quickly look at where it was parked overnight and that area is dry. If there were a problem I’d expect to see some drips there, too. I poke my head under the bike and there’s nothing dripping, no evidence of a leak. I conclude it’s a “Gold Wing hiccup”, which has plagued my Wing for a long time in spite of being checked over by several bike shops. Sometimes when the engine is started and runs only for a short time, like this morning, it spews out some antifreeze through the overflow hose. No-one has been able to describe what causes this. I’m pretty confident this is what I’m looking at, so I mount up and ride off with the group. I will check the antifreeze level when I can, but there’s no evidence of a problem.
There are several dozen motorcycles, most of them Gold Wings. I’veobserved that my bike and Woodie’s trike are the only 1500’s in the group. J.R. has a bike of, well, various vintages since it seems to be composite of many bikes, but it’s a 1000cc Wing. Otherwise, all the Gold Wings are 1800’s. How times have changed since the Alamo Run when the first 1800 showed up!
There’s always a bit of apprehension riding in a large group of unfamiliar riders. But this group seems well-mannered and steady. Ricky, whose last name I didn’t catch, is from the local Gold Wing Road Riders Association chapter and is a great leader, holding a brisk but manageable pace. I never do find out who the tail gunner is, but he’s likewise excellent: Every CB transmission is clear, measured, authoritative, and concise. Tail gunner, if you’re out there reading this, congratulations on a great job!
We ride roughly southward from Vicksburg but the track captured by my GPS is a winding back-country route that crosses the Natchez Trace three times. Mostly we pass through heavily wooded areas where canopies of live oak trees are draped with Spanish moss. The occasional vine loops down from the trees as though to snare the unsuspecting biker, but fortunately these are all on the left side of the road and don’t interfere with our leisurely journey.
I am the 12th bike in line, roughly in the middle of the pack. On these roads, with this many riders, counting bikes in the mirrors is not a wise idea and so I wait until the first stop to count. There are 23. We lost one who, to a bit of concern, suddenly went AWOL without any CB announcement and didn’t make one of the turnoffs. He couldn’t have missed it, as all the bikes were bunched together. At last check, no-one knows why he bailed out.Our first stop is Grand Gulf Military Park, on the hilly banks of the Mississippi River, where there were fought some notable battles between Union and Confederate troops. There’s no cell phone service but I check my messages and there’s one from Kitty. She’s gotten my Mother’s Day card! On the first day, I stopped in town in Virginia to find a card shop and a post office. I was not able to mention this fact prior to this because with Kitty’s newfound Internet awareness, she’s reading my daily blog too so I couldn’t tip her off! Glad it got there on time.
After poking around for an hour or more, including a brief stop for some to climb the lookout tower, we retrace our track back out to Rt. 61 and head south through the town of Lorman for lunch.
The “Old Country Restaurant” is a place you would need to know about to stop there. It’s a very unassuming place. But folks around here apparently do know about it, as there are several groups of bikers and quite a few cars in the parking lot. This is a unique throw-back to an earlier time where one establish
ment served all the functions of a small town. On the walls are thousands upon thousands of business cards, some so old and brown that I wonder if they would crumble if I touch them. There are decades-old advertising billboards for products that I haven’t the slightest knowledge of. The restaurant is a buffet featuring chicken and beef ribs. The owner is Arthur Fine, and at one point he comes out and explains the history of the building and his purchase of it. He’s a graceful African-American man who then proceeds to entertain us with several heartfelt a cappella songs in the American Negro style. He gets a large round of applause when he’s finished. This is a place that deserves a waypoint in my GPS, and I mark it when we walk outside. I’ll be back!
My intention for this trip from the beginning has been to split off from the group sometime today and ride the 200-plus miles to Gulfport, Mississippi to spend a bit of time with our family there. I just couldn’t be this close without seeing them! So after lunch, this feels like the time and place. “I’m metamorphosing from a biker into a grandpa!” I tell several people. And suddenly, as if from nowhere, tears come to my eyes and Marlene gives me a sustained hug. She says something like “That’s a good thing, you go and be a grandpa!”
And so while dozens of bikes head north toward more country roads and the hotel, one black Wing heads south. I follow the GPS-generated route and end up running Rt. 98 to Mccomb, Mississippi, and then on to I-55 south, where I pick up I-12 east. 209 miles pass and I arrive at Kevin’s house to be greeted by grandkids screaming with joy.
And so the metamorphosis is complete. It is a little disconcerting to be here without Kitty.
But tonight, I’m just a
grandpa.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Overnight a strong weather front with torrential but short-lived downpours moved through the Vicksburg area, leaving behind a beautiful crisp day with temperatures in the 70’s, perfect for a ride. Most of the riders are out drying off their rain covers, some draped across the second-story balcony railings, flapping in the breeze like giant flags of questionable origin.
We are to form up at 9:00 AM for the group ride today. After a leisurely breakfast, my bike cover has dried but several towels are soaked, so I stow them as best I can. The cover generally protects the entire bike but it is not waterproof, so in a heavy rain some water always soaks in the cloth covered seat. I climb onto the seat to move the bike to a place in line, and immediately my entire rear end and inside of my thighs are soaked.
I move my Wing into line and dismount. Jack Sides, apparently seeing my soaking wet behind, walks over and says, “Beachy! How many years have you had that cloth seat? And how many times have you had to dry it after an overnight rain? Can’t take you anywhere without Kitty!”
As the bikes are starting up, I suddenly notice a couple teaspoons of antifreeze on the pavement under my bike! I quickly look at where it was parked overnight and that area is dry. If there were a problem I’d expect to see some drips there, too. I poke my head under the bike and there’s nothing dripping, no evidence of a leak. I conclude it’s a “Gold Wing hiccup”, which has plagued my Wing for a long time in spite of being checked over by several bike shops. Sometimes when the engine is started and runs only for a short time, like this morning, it spews out some antifreeze through the overflow hose. No-one has been able to describe what causes this. I’m pretty confident this is what I’m looking at, so I mount up and ride off with the group. I will check the antifreeze level when I can, but there’s no evidence of a problem.
There are several dozen motorcycles, most of them Gold Wings. I’veobserved that my bike and Woodie’s trike are the only 1500’s in the group. J.R. has a bike of, well, various vintages since it seems to be composite of many bikes, but it’s a 1000cc Wing. Otherwise, all the Gold Wings are 1800’s. How times have changed since the Alamo Run when the first 1800 showed up! There’s always a bit of apprehension riding in a large group of unfamiliar riders. But this group seems well-mannered and steady. Ricky, whose last name I didn’t catch, is from the local Gold Wing Road Riders Association chapter and is a great leader, holding a brisk but manageable pace. I never do find out who the tail gunner is, but he’s likewise excellent: Every CB transmission is clear, measured, authoritative, and concise. Tail gunner, if you’re out there reading this, congratulations on a great job!
We ride roughly southward from Vicksburg but the track captured by my GPS is a winding back-country route that crosses the Natchez Trace three times. Mostly we pass through heavily wooded areas where canopies of live oak trees are draped with Spanish moss. The occasional vine loops down from the trees as though to snare the unsuspecting biker, but fortunately these are all on the left side of the road and don’t interfere with our leisurely journey.
I am the 12th bike in line, roughly in the middle of the pack. On these roads, with this many riders, counting bikes in the mirrors is not a wise idea and so I wait until the first stop to count. There are 23. We lost one who, to a bit of concern, suddenly went AWOL without any CB announcement and didn’t make one of the turnoffs. He couldn’t have missed it, as all the bikes were bunched together. At last check, no-one knows why he bailed out.Our first stop is Grand Gulf Military Park, on the hilly banks of the Mississippi River, where there were fought some notable battles between Union and Confederate troops. There’s no cell phone service but I check my messages and there’s one from Kitty. She’s gotten my Mother’s Day card! On the first day, I stopped in town in Virginia to find a card shop and a post office. I was not able to mention this fact prior to this because with Kitty’s newfound Internet awareness, she’s reading my daily blog too so I couldn’t tip her off! Glad it got there on time.
After poking around for an hour or more, including a brief stop for some to climb the lookout tower, we retrace our track back out to Rt. 61 and head south through the town of Lorman for lunch.
The “Old Country Restaurant” is a place you would need to know about to stop there. It’s a very unassuming place. But folks around here apparently do know about it, as there are several groups of bikers and quite a few cars in the parking lot. This is a unique throw-back to an earlier time where one establish
ment served all the functions of a small town. On the walls are thousands upon thousands of business cards, some so old and brown that I wonder if they would crumble if I touch them. There are decades-old advertising billboards for products that I haven’t the slightest knowledge of. The restaurant is a buffet featuring chicken and beef ribs. The owner is Arthur Fine, and at one point he comes out and explains the history of the building and his purchase of it. He’s a graceful African-American man who then proceeds to entertain us with several heartfelt a cappella songs in the American Negro style. He gets a large round of applause when he’s finished. This is a place that deserves a waypoint in my GPS, and I mark it when we walk outside. I’ll be back!
My intention for this trip from the beginning has been to split off from the group sometime today and ride the 200-plus miles to Gulfport, Mississippi to spend a bit of time with our family there. I just couldn’t be this close without seeing them! So after lunch, this feels like the time and place. “I’m metamorphosing from a biker into a grandpa!” I tell several people. And suddenly, as if from nowhere, tears come to my eyes and Marlene gives me a sustained hug. She says something like “That’s a good thing, you go and be a grandpa!”And so while dozens of bikes head north toward more country roads and the hotel, one black Wing heads south. I follow the GPS-generated route and end up running Rt. 98 to Mccomb, Mississippi, and then on to I-55 south, where I pick up I-12 east. 209 miles pass and I arrive at Kevin’s house to be greeted by grandkids screaming with joy.
And so the metamorphosis is complete. It is a little disconcerting to be here without Kitty.
But tonight, I’m just a
grandpa.Friday, May 7, 2010
Crawfish Caper, Day 2
Transitions and Mud Bugs
Friday, May 07, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
No alarm clock is set for this morning. It’s just 260 miles to Vicksburg, about a four-hour ride, so I plan to sleep in. That plan fails when I wake up at 6:30 local time because I suppose my body clock thinks it’s already 7:30 and refuses to let me go back to sleep. I putter around and finally roll out at about 9:00 AM, another beautiful southern spring day in my windscreen.
Yesterday I listened to music almost the whole day, interspersed with the big-truck CB chatter. I don’t usually talk a lot on CB when riding alone but occasionally a trucker will strike up a conversation that lasts for many miles. This drives Kitty crazy: When playing music, the incoming CB transmission will mute the music passage, and then the music resumes as soon as the CB reception is over. Then when I respond, the same thing happens, and sometimes Kitty can’t tell if I’m talking to her or talking on CB. So her headset is filled with a confusing barrage of music, incoming CB transmissions, and my outgoing CB transmissions. I’ve learned not to mix music and CB when riding two-up! But Solo Guy has none of these constraints, and yesterday I happily listened all day to music and CB chatter.
But this morning, for no particular reason, I just want silence, so I turn off the CB and the radio and listen to the wind whispering around my big Tulsa windshield and my aerodynamic Shoei helmet. The morning is suffused by a pleasant, heavy, sweet smell that seems to emanate from a white-flowered shrub that grows along the Interstate banks. This pleasant aroma accompanies me all the way to Vicksburg while the medial strip and roadsides are sometimes covered in carpets of purple or white flowers.
I reflect on the crawfish feast planned for tonight. The last time I had crawfish I ordered them very hot then got back to the hotel and realized I had to remove my contacts. After repeated hand washings I finally dared to touch my eye and it was instant fire, unrelenting, that lasted about three minutes before subsiding. I then had to repeat this for the other eye! I wonder how that will work this evening. I always pack my eyeglasses but it’s very hard to get them on under the helmet, so I virtually always wear contacts while riding.
And thinking of crawfish reminds me that they are often called “mud bugs” in the South, and this in turn reminds me of one of our two-up motorcycle trips, coming home from the Alamo Run in San Antonio, where we explored the southern coast and bayous of Louisiana. We took a little bayou cruise with Cajun Man, whose real name is Ron Guidry, having retired from a career in Special Ops Armed Forces and the Louisiana State Highway Patrol. He gave us a tape and a CD of his music, and it has had a lasting impact on my understanding of the Cajun culture. His songs speak of trapping muskrats, paddling a pirogue on the bayou late at night, eating jambalaya and crawfish pie, working hard and playing hard, and methods of hunting rabbits that are, as he explains, “illegal in all parts of the world with the exception of extreme southern Louisiana, where, if you are hungry, anything is legal.” One of his captivating songs describes a plain down-home restaurant where all they have on the menu is “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” He describes high-class people wearing suits and diamond rings sitting in this joint eating “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” I wonder how Toney’s, tonight’s restaurant, might compare to this dive!
Solo Guy has no preconceived notion of whether his world should be silent or raucous. Both work at different times. So I break my cone of wind-whispered silence and cycle twice through the rough-cut Cajun music of Cajun Man. In a strange way I now feel more prepared to eat crawfish tonight. I doubt that Vicksburg is much like extreme southern Louisiana in many regards but I hope the mud bugs are the same!In the 261 miles to the hotel in Vicksburg, I make one 7-minute fuel stop and average 70.4 miles per hour according to the GPS. I arrive at about 1:00 PM and see several Gold Wings in the parking lot. I presume most of the group is out for a ride somewhere.
I’m greeted by my old friend Rick “Skippy” Melling, and suddenly Solo Guy is in an awkward state of transition. Solo Guy practices few social graces and actually needs even fewer, and suddenly I’m struggling to switch environments and become Normal Guy, who actually talks and listens to people! Soon enough dozens of Gold Wings show up from their day trip and I’m talking to friends, some of whom I haven’t seen in years, and meeting new people as well. Gordo and Gibby and Roger and Marlene and Woodie and Gloria and Charlie and Bobbye and many others – it’s good to see all of them again. Almost everyone asks about Kitty, and in a text message exchange she mentions that maybe next year we can do a longer ride and she could come too.
Of course someone quickly points out that it was Gordo who sucked the diesel fuel out of my Gold Wing’s tank on that hillside a mile out of Leakey, Texas. Yes, I will forever be known as Diesel Boi to this crowd after that misadventure! And in my garage, on my Wall of Shame, I still have the gas can they made me ignominiously carry home with me from Texas!All the bikes and one car, maybe 40 or more, form up at 6:00 PM for the short ride to Toney’s Restaurant. It’s not a dive – the dining room looks nice. But the back room, where we are taken, now this is a no-frills crawfish-eating place! They do have a menu but most of us opt for all-you-can-eat mud bugs. The loud crowd numbers, to my count, about 55 people. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten crawfish and I find I’ve lost the knack.
Gordo shows me how to twist the tail away from the body, and then lacerate the back end of the tail with a thumbnail to easily extract the meat. “So you can do more than suck diesel fuel out of a tank!” I tell him.
“I’ll have to update my resume when I get home.”
I eat four heaping plates plus one non-heaping plate of these steaming succulent mud bugs, and then I’m done. I can eat no more. Wow, I wish we had these things in Virginia! I decide it is worth riding a thousand miles to eat them!
Back at the hotel, everyone chats and mingles in the parking lot. Roger Riley distributes necklaces with little crawfish attached. My transition to Normal Guy seems to have gone well. It’s good to see my old friends, some of whom have shared thousands of miles of riding with me.
I haven’t removed my contact lenses, so when I get to my room I carefully wash my hands several times and try to clean under the fingernails to remove all traces of the cooking spices. When I remove the lenses, there’s only a minor burning for a second. I must be getting better at this!Tomorrow there’s a planned ride activity, from which I will peel off sometime, or maybe wait until we arrive back at the hotel, and slide on over Gulfport to spend a bit of time with our son and family, who now live there. Being within 200 miles of Gulfport, I just can’t let the opportunity pass.
They tell me the ride leaves at 9:00 AM sharp, although nobody seems to know where we’re going. That pretty much works for me. I plan to be ready.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
No alarm clock is set for this morning. It’s just 260 miles to Vicksburg, about a four-hour ride, so I plan to sleep in. That plan fails when I wake up at 6:30 local time because I suppose my body clock thinks it’s already 7:30 and refuses to let me go back to sleep. I putter around and finally roll out at about 9:00 AM, another beautiful southern spring day in my windscreen.
Yesterday I listened to music almost the whole day, interspersed with the big-truck CB chatter. I don’t usually talk a lot on CB when riding alone but occasionally a trucker will strike up a conversation that lasts for many miles. This drives Kitty crazy: When playing music, the incoming CB transmission will mute the music passage, and then the music resumes as soon as the CB reception is over. Then when I respond, the same thing happens, and sometimes Kitty can’t tell if I’m talking to her or talking on CB. So her headset is filled with a confusing barrage of music, incoming CB transmissions, and my outgoing CB transmissions. I’ve learned not to mix music and CB when riding two-up! But Solo Guy has none of these constraints, and yesterday I happily listened all day to music and CB chatter.
But this morning, for no particular reason, I just want silence, so I turn off the CB and the radio and listen to the wind whispering around my big Tulsa windshield and my aerodynamic Shoei helmet. The morning is suffused by a pleasant, heavy, sweet smell that seems to emanate from a white-flowered shrub that grows along the Interstate banks. This pleasant aroma accompanies me all the way to Vicksburg while the medial strip and roadsides are sometimes covered in carpets of purple or white flowers.
I reflect on the crawfish feast planned for tonight. The last time I had crawfish I ordered them very hot then got back to the hotel and realized I had to remove my contacts. After repeated hand washings I finally dared to touch my eye and it was instant fire, unrelenting, that lasted about three minutes before subsiding. I then had to repeat this for the other eye! I wonder how that will work this evening. I always pack my eyeglasses but it’s very hard to get them on under the helmet, so I virtually always wear contacts while riding.
And thinking of crawfish reminds me that they are often called “mud bugs” in the South, and this in turn reminds me of one of our two-up motorcycle trips, coming home from the Alamo Run in San Antonio, where we explored the southern coast and bayous of Louisiana. We took a little bayou cruise with Cajun Man, whose real name is Ron Guidry, having retired from a career in Special Ops Armed Forces and the Louisiana State Highway Patrol. He gave us a tape and a CD of his music, and it has had a lasting impact on my understanding of the Cajun culture. His songs speak of trapping muskrats, paddling a pirogue on the bayou late at night, eating jambalaya and crawfish pie, working hard and playing hard, and methods of hunting rabbits that are, as he explains, “illegal in all parts of the world with the exception of extreme southern Louisiana, where, if you are hungry, anything is legal.” One of his captivating songs describes a plain down-home restaurant where all they have on the menu is “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” He describes high-class people wearing suits and diamond rings sitting in this joint eating “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” I wonder how Toney’s, tonight’s restaurant, might compare to this dive!
Solo Guy has no preconceived notion of whether his world should be silent or raucous. Both work at different times. So I break my cone of wind-whispered silence and cycle twice through the rough-cut Cajun music of Cajun Man. In a strange way I now feel more prepared to eat crawfish tonight. I doubt that Vicksburg is much like extreme southern Louisiana in many regards but I hope the mud bugs are the same!In the 261 miles to the hotel in Vicksburg, I make one 7-minute fuel stop and average 70.4 miles per hour according to the GPS. I arrive at about 1:00 PM and see several Gold Wings in the parking lot. I presume most of the group is out for a ride somewhere.
I’m greeted by my old friend Rick “Skippy” Melling, and suddenly Solo Guy is in an awkward state of transition. Solo Guy practices few social graces and actually needs even fewer, and suddenly I’m struggling to switch environments and become Normal Guy, who actually talks and listens to people! Soon enough dozens of Gold Wings show up from their day trip and I’m talking to friends, some of whom I haven’t seen in years, and meeting new people as well. Gordo and Gibby and Roger and Marlene and Woodie and Gloria and Charlie and Bobbye and many others – it’s good to see all of them again. Almost everyone asks about Kitty, and in a text message exchange she mentions that maybe next year we can do a longer ride and she could come too.
Of course someone quickly points out that it was Gordo who sucked the diesel fuel out of my Gold Wing’s tank on that hillside a mile out of Leakey, Texas. Yes, I will forever be known as Diesel Boi to this crowd after that misadventure! And in my garage, on my Wall of Shame, I still have the gas can they made me ignominiously carry home with me from Texas!All the bikes and one car, maybe 40 or more, form up at 6:00 PM for the short ride to Toney’s Restaurant. It’s not a dive – the dining room looks nice. But the back room, where we are taken, now this is a no-frills crawfish-eating place! They do have a menu but most of us opt for all-you-can-eat mud bugs. The loud crowd numbers, to my count, about 55 people. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten crawfish and I find I’ve lost the knack.
Gordo shows me how to twist the tail away from the body, and then lacerate the back end of the tail with a thumbnail to easily extract the meat. “So you can do more than suck diesel fuel out of a tank!” I tell him.“I’ll have to update my resume when I get home.”
I eat four heaping plates plus one non-heaping plate of these steaming succulent mud bugs, and then I’m done. I can eat no more. Wow, I wish we had these things in Virginia! I decide it is worth riding a thousand miles to eat them!
Back at the hotel, everyone chats and mingles in the parking lot. Roger Riley distributes necklaces with little crawfish attached. My transition to Normal Guy seems to have gone well. It’s good to see my old friends, some of whom have shared thousands of miles of riding with me.
I haven’t removed my contact lenses, so when I get to my room I carefully wash my hands several times and try to clean under the fingernails to remove all traces of the cooking spices. When I remove the lenses, there’s only a minor burning for a second. I must be getting better at this!Tomorrow there’s a planned ride activity, from which I will peel off sometime, or maybe wait until we arrive back at the hotel, and slide on over Gulfport to spend a bit of time with our son and family, who now live there. Being within 200 miles of Gulfport, I just can’t let the opportunity pass.
They tell me the ride leaves at 9:00 AM sharp, although nobody seems to know where we’re going. That pretty much works for me. I plan to be ready.
Crawfish Caper, Day 1
Magic Ribbon
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!!
I cower in confused terror as the huge screeching bird of prey swoops down to carry me away into certain oblivion. But at the last instant… I reach out and turn off the alarm. It’s 5:00 AM, time to hit the Long Road! I haven’t attended a WOTI (Wings Over the Internet) function for quite some time, and I’ve been musing about this year’s iteration of the Mississippi Area Crawfish Hunt (MACH 2010), held in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Kitty has been gently encouraging me to take a long ride. I guess she knows when it’s time! Even on Mother’s Day weekend.
By 6:15 I’m heading west on I-66 in the 55-degree morning chill. The moon is a half-slice of California white pizza in an early-morning pale blue sky. I haven’t fueled before starting out so I find myself fueling less than 15 miles from home.
After that brief stop, the Long Road lies before me! It’s been a while since Solo Guy has manifested himself on my rides. He seems to emerge mostly on the Long Road, and he is here today. Solo Guy rides his own ride, eats when he is hungry, stops when he is tired, sleeps when he needs to, talks when he wants to, or not, and isn’t much into counting miles or milestones. Unlike TV’s Cheers jingle that says “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name,” Solo Guy revels in the fact that he can go where nobody knows his name! It’s just the Long Road and Solo Guy. I’ve described in other stories how Solo Guy is often mistaken for Lonely Guy, but even in this, he cares nothing for those perceptions.
As I head south on I-81, the early green of a Virginia springtime rolls into a blue haze in the distance. This seems to have been the week to clean out the chicken and livestock barns; the Shenandoah Valley reeks with the perfume of rotting manure spread liberally on many of the fields. It reminds me in a small way of the stench that Kitty and I encountered on last year’s ride to the Gaspe Peninsula. But that’s in a different story. Herds of black cows dot the fields, many accompanied by a frisky black calf, or “baby cow” as Kitty and I usually call them when traveling together. Kitty has a soft spot for all babies, and I presume she believes they are cuter if she calls them “baby cows.” For a moment I’m a little nostalgic to be traveling without Kitty, taking a quick inventory of the wonderful trips and the miles we ridden together, but Solo Guy re-asserts himself and I roll southward with a smile.
The morning warms slowly under a pristine sky, and over a period of hours I close the heat vents, open my jacket vents, open the fairing vents, and finally, the windshield vent, one by one. Still, it’s a pleasant 82 degrees.
I have found the sweet spot on the seat, hitting the groove, and I feel I could ride the entire day without stopping. I’m on a magic machine following a magic ribbon that appears just in time for me to ride over it, and slowly disappears behind me. Solo Guy is reluctant to stop, but each 200 miles I’m forced to stop for fuel.
Somewhere in Alabama later in the afternoon, between fuel stops, Solo Guy decides to take a break at a rest stop to drink some water. Solo Guy cares nothing for the concept of riding “tank-to-tank” without stopping though he often does that, about 200 miles each time. It’s very simple for Solo Guy: When he is thirsty, he stops to drink. Under a shaded area at the rest stop, I prepare to sit down on the grass with my back against a tree, and then notice that my walking has disturbed thousands of ants in dozens of tiny anthills. Resting against this tree suddenly seems a lot less inviting and I beat a hasty retreat.
The temperature has hovered in the low to mid nineties all afternoon, and I finally to have stow my jacket. I don’t like riding without my leather jacket, but I’m just getting too uncomfortable.
Having run through the northwest corner of Georgia, I’ve “gained” an hour in Alabama as I approach a potential stopping point 20 miles south of Birmingham. It’s relatively early local time, just before 6:00 PM. I’ve traveled almost exactly 750 miles, and Solo Guy considers riding out the nearly 300 or so miles to Vicksburg. But what to do with the second day of a two-day destination ride if you finish it on the first day? In the end, I decide to knock it off here, get a nice dinner at a restaurant within walking distance, and get a good’s night's rest.
It has been a great day. Tomorrow’s adventures await.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!!
I cower in confused terror as the huge screeching bird of prey swoops down to carry me away into certain oblivion. But at the last instant… I reach out and turn off the alarm. It’s 5:00 AM, time to hit the Long Road! I haven’t attended a WOTI (Wings Over the Internet) function for quite some time, and I’ve been musing about this year’s iteration of the Mississippi Area Crawfish Hunt (MACH 2010), held in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Kitty has been gently encouraging me to take a long ride. I guess she knows when it’s time! Even on Mother’s Day weekend.
By 6:15 I’m heading west on I-66 in the 55-degree morning chill. The moon is a half-slice of California white pizza in an early-morning pale blue sky. I haven’t fueled before starting out so I find myself fueling less than 15 miles from home.
After that brief stop, the Long Road lies before me! It’s been a while since Solo Guy has manifested himself on my rides. He seems to emerge mostly on the Long Road, and he is here today. Solo Guy rides his own ride, eats when he is hungry, stops when he is tired, sleeps when he needs to, talks when he wants to, or not, and isn’t much into counting miles or milestones. Unlike TV’s Cheers jingle that says “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name,” Solo Guy revels in the fact that he can go where nobody knows his name! It’s just the Long Road and Solo Guy. I’ve described in other stories how Solo Guy is often mistaken for Lonely Guy, but even in this, he cares nothing for those perceptions.
As I head south on I-81, the early green of a Virginia springtime rolls into a blue haze in the distance. This seems to have been the week to clean out the chicken and livestock barns; the Shenandoah Valley reeks with the perfume of rotting manure spread liberally on many of the fields. It reminds me in a small way of the stench that Kitty and I encountered on last year’s ride to the Gaspe Peninsula. But that’s in a different story. Herds of black cows dot the fields, many accompanied by a frisky black calf, or “baby cow” as Kitty and I usually call them when traveling together. Kitty has a soft spot for all babies, and I presume she believes they are cuter if she calls them “baby cows.” For a moment I’m a little nostalgic to be traveling without Kitty, taking a quick inventory of the wonderful trips and the miles we ridden together, but Solo Guy re-asserts himself and I roll southward with a smile.
The morning warms slowly under a pristine sky, and over a period of hours I close the heat vents, open my jacket vents, open the fairing vents, and finally, the windshield vent, one by one. Still, it’s a pleasant 82 degrees.
I have found the sweet spot on the seat, hitting the groove, and I feel I could ride the entire day without stopping. I’m on a magic machine following a magic ribbon that appears just in time for me to ride over it, and slowly disappears behind me. Solo Guy is reluctant to stop, but each 200 miles I’m forced to stop for fuel.
Somewhere in Alabama later in the afternoon, between fuel stops, Solo Guy decides to take a break at a rest stop to drink some water. Solo Guy cares nothing for the concept of riding “tank-to-tank” without stopping though he often does that, about 200 miles each time. It’s very simple for Solo Guy: When he is thirsty, he stops to drink. Under a shaded area at the rest stop, I prepare to sit down on the grass with my back against a tree, and then notice that my walking has disturbed thousands of ants in dozens of tiny anthills. Resting against this tree suddenly seems a lot less inviting and I beat a hasty retreat.
The temperature has hovered in the low to mid nineties all afternoon, and I finally to have stow my jacket. I don’t like riding without my leather jacket, but I’m just getting too uncomfortable.
Having run through the northwest corner of Georgia, I’ve “gained” an hour in Alabama as I approach a potential stopping point 20 miles south of Birmingham. It’s relatively early local time, just before 6:00 PM. I’ve traveled almost exactly 750 miles, and Solo Guy considers riding out the nearly 300 or so miles to Vicksburg. But what to do with the second day of a two-day destination ride if you finish it on the first day? In the end, I decide to knock it off here, get a nice dinner at a restaurant within walking distance, and get a good’s night's rest.
It has been a great day. Tomorrow’s adventures await.
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