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 ...
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