Of Gazelles and Rhinos; Where There's Smoke ...

The US Interstate Highway System is a boon to travel. It smooths out the kinks in the road and helps us move faster than ever from one place to another. What began in 1956 took 35 years to complete, and of course we're still adding to it.

It's also boring as hell.

Cars and interstate highways are made for each other. The point is to make the ride simpler and less intrusive. It's a conspiracy to isolate us from reality, and it's no wonder people get sucked in. It seems natural to pay more attention to a cell phone than what's going on out there - on the road.

On a bike, your body is in a constant intimate dance to stay upright on two wheels. The buzzing road underfoot reminds you it's there to catch you if you fall. When it rains, you get wet.

All that situational awareness sharpens the hunger for rich stimulation. And interstate highways are like having saltines when you crave a juicy steak.

So it makes sense to stay to the secondary highways, except when you have to sell your soul to make good time. Big, fat, straight four-lane divided interstates get you there quickly. The rest of the time, give me the squiggly line every time.

But the lesser of two evils was our choice today. Anxious to get to the North Carolina Blueberry Festival and Classic Car Show in Burgaw, NC, our respective gazelles bounded among the rhinos and elephants that lumbered north on I-95. The agenda was to meet my son Guillermo and his wife Elena there, and to have some time at the festival before it got dark.

Lonnie and I are conservative types; we weren't the bikes you see racing along weaving in and out of traffic, but we kept up and didn't tolerate a lot of dullard carelessness.

As is generally true, the interstate ride was unremarkable, but we were finally able to leave that soul-numbing road and head east on the secondaries. What struck me as we made our way through the towns and farmland of North Carolina was how everyone seemed to be somewhere else. I grew up in a small town and have passed through many in my wanderings, and it just seemed a little more deserted than usual.

As we rode toward the east, a plume of smoke in the distance caught my eye. Small at first, it grew larger as the road seemed drawn to it, meandering left and right but in the end always vectoring back. Finally, at about a half mile away, I rounded a curve and the smoke was dead in front of me, an ominous massive column about a quarter of a mile wide, boiling up fast and brown and high. Instinctively I slowed, unwilling to assume the passage on the little two-lane road would be safe, hoping that Lonnie, ahead of me, was paying attention.

But he was already nearly on top of it. I gunned my bike and flew forward to catch up before he might be lost in the midst of it, daring not to think of how this might turn into more of an adventure than either of us wanted. In seconds, I raced through a visual estimation.

I wasn't going to make it. He was going to get there before I caught up to him ...

A Stranger And the Jams

All sorts of things happen in hotels. Little did Lonnie and I know that we would be accosted on our way to the vending machine. She practically ran us over as we came around the corner. But the amazing part was how quick she was.

"Nice jams."

She didn't break stride and neither did we. Lonnie and I were down the hall and back in the room before we busted out laughing. Really. What kind of a woman says that to a stranger in the hall?

It's not like you wouldn't expect to see jams in a hotel. How often have you seen people coming from the pool with a towel around their waist? It wasn't like Lonnie didn't have a shirt on.

And the next morning, we saw her with what seemed to be her three young sons in tow, aged probably six to twelve. I told Lonnie that explained it. You have to be quick to deal with boys like that.

I should know.

After a tasty hot breakfast, Lonnie and I did the grip and rip on I-95 north. It was going to be a long day, with many miles still to go. The last several hours were going to be on back roads, so it was important to make good time.

An Initial Scare - Not the Snake

What do you do when you're in the middle of nowhere and a bike doesn't start? The thought was crossing my mind as Lonnie pressed his starter button repeatedly.

Okay, we weren't quite in the middle of nowhere, but Folkston, Georgia, doesn't exactly qualify as densely populated, either. You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach when - in all the different scenarios you play out in your mind - none of them ends particularly well, and some you don't even want to think about?

Yeah. I was so there.

It had definitely been time to fill the tanks, so stopping at the gas station just down from the BBQ place was the right thing to do. So why was I rethinking that now?

At least the bike was turning over. Mostly. It was trying to, anyway - it sounded tired.

Lonnie's Victory Touring Cruiser was the same vintage as my Suzuki Boulevard C50 - an '05. They liked galloping in lockstep down the road, and while it really made no sense to compare the wear on the two, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about the battery I had just replaced.

I started trying to remember if we had seen any auto parts stores on the way into town just as the Victory fired up. Lonnie smiled, and I did, too, as we clacked the two bikes into gear. But I knew this probably wasn't the end of that story (and I was right, but let's not get ahead of ourselves).

Now there are those who like the comfort and ease of a well-sealed modern automobile. One that whispers down the road making little noise on the outside and damn near none on the inside. And I have to admit, there are times when a quiet conversation in a cabin cut off from the outside world is a fine thing.

But there's something awesome about the sound of air going past your helmet at 60, 70, or 80 MPH, mingled with the roar of your pipes and the sounds of cars a few feet from your legs. And don't kid yourself - there are more than the average number of people in Florida and Georgia who want to go every bit that fast, so if you don't want to be run over, you'd better be ready to keep up.

Blacktop blurs by at that speed. There's no detail once it gets closer than 20 feet in front of you. It's a constant buzz - a few inches under the soles of your boots.

So, among other things, you watch the surface of the road about a tenth of a mile ahead as you approach it for hazards. Construction crews are quite adept at either creating interesting surprises or ignoring the potholes that develop and will swallow you and your bike whole. (Then there's South Carolina. Those guys proudly patches the holes - leaving bumps that will jar your fillings loose.)

I've seen some interesting things in that window rushing at the bike. Today, it was a five foot Indigo snake. Well, honestly, that's the best guess I have, since it too went by at about 65. Still, I got a better look at it as it raced across the road than anyone in a car would have.

A few more hours and day one on the road was done.

We checked into our hotel and took the advice of the girl on the desk, who referred us to a local pub for a cold one. Still stuffed from that great BBQ lunch, neither of us could eat more than a few tater tots, but the beer on draft sure went down smooth as we let the road buzz dissipate.

Tomorrow would be Saturday, and another nearly full day of riding. The Carolinas would prove challenging in their own way ...

A Taste of the West - In the South

Funny. You don't think so much about how slick a road is until you're on two wheels. I guess in a car, cocooned in plush dryness, you don't have to so much. On a bike, you're one slip away from grinding metal on asphalt.

At least the rain didn't last that long. It was long enough to get on the rain suit, at least from my perspective, but Lonnie refused. And got kinda wet.

The good news? Once we passed through it, everything dried quickly in the Florida heat.

Our path was deliberately out of the way, and took us around Jacksonville to the west. A good ride and pleasant, other than a little construction.

Crossing into Georgia, it was time for lunch and gas. The ride into Folkston on 301 took us right by a little BBQ hut that seemed all but deserted at 2:45 in the afternoon, but it had just the right combination of neon and funk, so we took a chance.

The patio added to the side of the original hut had a wooden deck, and as our boots struck the planks, it reminded me of so many westerns - minus the spurs. As we entered the hut, I half expected to find the sheriff playing Blackjack with a few townfolk.

Instead, the hut was deserted. At least it seemed so at first.

The warped floor covered in linoleum held a few mismatched tables and an array of chairs, enough space for maybe a dozen hearty souls. A few squeeze bottles of BBQ sauce and rolls of paper towels were randomly resting on the formica surfaces.

A fly swerved randomly, noisily about the space.

Across from the screen door entrance was a wooden half-door into the small kitchen. Next to the door, a rectangular hole about four feet high and six feet wide provided a view of the steam table with foil-covered dishes.

"Hello?" I ventured.

Appearing from the small hidden space in the kitchen was a young man in his twenties who had seen his share of beer, wearing a white apron over a white t-shirt and blue jeans. When he spoke, it was clear he was a southern man - cordial and polite, peppering his sentences with "sir."

I looked over the menu on the wall above the steam table and ordered the rib dinner and tea. Lonnie did the same, but asked for water.

You know you're in the south when asking for tea just means sweet tea. Period.

Now, I've had BBQ all over these United States, but I gotta say these ribs were some of the best I've ever had. And the sauce was tangy without being overpowering.

We washed up and thanked the young man, noticing that he smiled modestly at our compliments. I put a pin in my mental map, and we climbed on again.

All Trips Are Not Created Equal

It was the night before launch and my list was about as complete as I could make it, but packing - well, not so much.

Starting out on a long motorcycle trip is relatively easy when you've got a bike like mine. It's easy because there just isn't much room for stuff, so you have to keep it simple and lean.

Lonnie and I had been thinking about this trip to North Carolina for some time. As Google Maps saw it, it was a trip of about eight hours from Orlando, but why rush through it on the heartless interstate system? Our plan was to take two days to get there on back roads, which meant I could pack three changes of everything but jeans, and anticipate using my son's washer and dryer once there to replenish.

I found my rear tire needed a little air while checking over the bike and was filling it when Lonnie arrived. He borrowed the compressor once he checked his pressure, and the rest of the evening I dedicated to packing, checking over the list and thinking about our actual starting route.

It doesn't make a lot of sense to me to plan a trip like this to the Nth degree. There are too many variables - construction, traffic accidents, weather. With initial plans for the first few hours of riding, there were general alternatives thereafter. Savannah was the de facto destination for the next night.

The next morning dawned bright and clear.

After loading up, and with a brief cleanup and final check of the equipment, the bikes roared to life. Our initial start was before eating, and an hour later arrived at a little diner with reputation for full meals at a reasonable price. The working man's breakfast of pancakes and sausage hit the spot.

It was a simple meal, served efficiently with a smile by an unpretentious waitress getting her job done. A good start.

Heading north in good spirits and beautiful riding weather, we celebrated the day, and soon thereafter found ourselves in heavy rain.