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!

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.

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

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!

GPS Track Day 4

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.

GPS Track Day 3

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.

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?”

“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