MACH 14: Day 13 - The Road Less Interesting

Day 13:  The Road Less Interesting

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in Tennessee, and I --

I took the the road less interesting,

And that has made all the difference

-- Apologies to Robert Frost

Any thoughts I have of recovering some scenic riding miles on US 70 through Tennessee are obliterated by a quick check  of the local weather radar:  On US 70, north of Jackson where we would be riding, there is a large red radar weather splotch that persists for the entire time we eat breakfast and pack up.  I abandon all thoughts of riding this road.  It will wait for another trip.

This leaves us with… The Road Less Interesting.  I am not prone to labeling any road uninteresting, let alone boring, but I-40 through Tennessee, I-85 through North Carolina, and I-95 between, say, Moncton, ME and Miami, FL come dangerously close.  I seem to recall it is 509 miles in Tennessee from Memphis to Bristol via Interstate.  On our journey homeward today, it will be our lot to ride 425 of those miles.

And so we roll eastward a little before 9:00 AM, 70 mph, holding the Interstate past the exit where we would divert to US 70.  The sky is gray and cloudy, unrelenting, and were it not for the weather radar I would once again be doing the Dance of the Rain Suit.  But except for the cell to the north, there is no rain in the picture for the next several hours.  Way off to the east, on the other end of the state near Knoxville, there’s a large front but it’s moving eastward and I estimate it will be out of the area by the time we reach Knoxville.

The Road Less Interesting runs today under a gray sky, but the temperature is perfect, fluctuating between 75 F and flirting with 80.  Under the liners in our mesh jackets, Kitty is wearing a t-shirt plus a thin long-sleeved shirt, and I’m wearing my LD Comfort “arms” and a t-shirt.  Both of us ride for hours in total comfort.

The Cumberland Plateau, part of the Appalachian mountain range, traverses Tennessee roughly halfway between Nashville and Knoxville, rising from several hundred feet above sea level on the west to about 2500 feet on the eastern side.  It features rock outcroppings, sandstone cliffs, some spectacular valleys and outlooks.  Unfortunately, on The Road Less Interesting, only occasional hints of these are visible.

I have been monitoring the weather radar all day.  Hours after leaving Jackson, I’m shocked that our friend Red Splotch is tracking with us at roughly the same speed, 70 mph, just sitting 40 miles or so to the north, in parallel to our track, its baleful red eye daring us to try to ride US 70.

Descending the east side of the Cumberland Gap, we cross back into the Eastern time zone and the GPS clock automatically resets itself from 1:16 PM to 2:16 PM.  Near here, there’s a brief shining moment where, from the heights of the plateau, the valleys to the southeast are displayed in a glorious vista, but only for a moment.  On The Road Less Interesting, it is so brief that Kitty misses it.  Then down the sweeping Interstate curves to the Cheat River and the giant power plant at water level, producing huge clouds of white water vapor from giant stacks, two of which look to be 300 feet tall.  I wish I could find a place for a picture, but on The Road Less Interesting, there is time only for a traffic check, a lane change, and maintaining the posted speed.

At our second and final fuel stop 20 miles west of Knoxville, we see a couple on a gray BMW K 1600 GTL touring motorcycle, having already fueled and just ready to mount up.  I walk over and chat for a few moments.  They’re from the Jersey coast, heading home as we are.

“We’ll be in Abingdon, VA tonight,” they say.

“Ah, Abingdon.  I hope you can check out a restaurant called the Wildflour Bakery, right on an exit where I think there’s a Holiday Inn Express.  I don’t recall the exit number.”

“We’re staying at the Holiday Inn Express!” says the guy.

“Well, you should check it out.  You can walk there although there’s not really a good path.  That might actually be where we end up,” I say.

We fuel up and while we have a bite to eat, I check the weather on my smartphone.  “Wow, there’s a strong front about a hundred miles west of Abingdon.  We have 150 miles.  It looks like we and the weather might arrive at the same time.”

Nevertheless, inspired by the thought of the Wildflour Bakery (which I call to make sure they are open), we decide to try for Abingdon, VA for the night.  I make a motel reservation by phone and we are off.

By this time we have finally outrun Red Splotch to the north as it claws its way over the Cumberland Gap and loses steam.  However, now we have a new interest, and I keep an eagle eye on the strong red-splotched weather bearing down on Abingdon, and keep trying to estimate which of us will make it to Abingdon first.  Several hours later, the mountains of southwest Virginia slow the front and the red splotches turn to yellow and finally just to normal rain.  I estimate we will probably beat the weather to Abingdon.

And at about 5:30 (having lost an hour in the time zone change), we arrive at what turns out to be Virginia Exit 19 on I-81 and check in to the motel.  The BMW is parked right in front.  As we unpack, the couple walks out, having already showered and changed, heading for the Wildflour Bakery.

“Ah, you’re here!” I say.  “And we’re here!  Go figure - you inspired us!”

I quickly clean the bike and cover it while Kitty showers and changes, and the first large raindrops splatter down.  After I grab a shower, we pick up the umbrellas Kitty thoughtfully brought in from the bike’s trunk and start picking our way between the traffic to the Wildflour Bakery.  The BMW couple is just walking back.

“That was phenomenal!” the woman says.  “A great recommendation!  We’ll be back just to eat at that restaurant!”

The Wildflour is at heart a bakery:  They bake every day and are generally open for breakfast and lunch, but are not open every day for dinner.  It’s housed in a restored Victorian house of 1896 vintage.  The chef creates his concoctions from fresh local fare when possible, so the menu changes with what’s available - farmer’s market fruits and vegetables, local beef and poultry, local red and white wines, even a local olive oil company with 60 flavored varieties.  Everything is made from scratch.  I order a black-and-bleu steak, medium rare, while Kitty orders a salmon dish.  Both orders are served in person by the head chef; both are artfully presented and perfectly prepared.  Veggies are crunchy and delightful, and the sweet whiskey-soaked bread pudding for dessert is the perfect finishing touch.

This place is on my short list of venues for which I would configure trip parameters just to visit.  I’d want to be here for dinner - a meal like this would be too good to waste by simply climbing on a motorcycle and riding away!

We are the last to leave the place, and it is still raining steadily.  As we pay our bill and prepare to walk back to the motel, Debbie, who seems to be one of the servers, says “I can’t let you walk back there in the dark and the rain!  Let me drive you there!  It’ll only take two minutes.”

And that’s how we conclude our last quarter mile of the day:  Crammed into her SUV with assorted other items, content to have spent a quality, wonderful day together.

We’ve traveled 453 perfect miles today, The Road Less Interesting notwithstanding, tank-to-tank with only two stops, both for fuel.  I continue to be amazed at how comfortable this Gold Wing is.  Also amazed that we have only one day left for this ride, a short 330 miles or so home.

Tomorrow will be here all too soon.