Lights Out

My dreams of the twisting roads of the Blue Ridge Parkway woke me this morning, refreshed and ready for action. This was the day we had planned to side-trip there, and over breakfast Lonnie and I discussed our route.

We mounted up after thanking Elena for a hearty breakfast of steel-cut oats, but there was a snag before we could get out of the driveway.

Lonnie's light bar refused to come on.

These are the lights on either side of the headlight. Their daytime function is to make the bike more visible, and in and of themselves, aren't essential for riding. But it isn't wise to ignore a mysterious electrical fault of any kind, since it could be a sign of bigger trouble on the horizon. You don't want to be in the middle of nowhere when the rest of that story unfolds.

We placed a call to the local Victory dealer, made arrangements to meet the mechanic when he came in at 9:00, and headed into town in time to meet him.

Long story short, this was not a stellar example of the service art. The young lady behind the counter was unable to tell us whether the service guy was in or not and suggested we "go around and see if the door is open."

We did. It wasn't. We came back around the building, asked her if she knew when he might be in, and of course, she didn't.

At this point, Lonnie and I looked at each other. "Doughnut?" I asked. Although the steel-cut oats were still keeping the wolves at bay, we'd passed a Krispy Kreme on the way in.

The coffee was hot, and the doughnut was awesome. Hard to resist, really. Okay, I admit it, the "Hot Light" works on my brain like a tractor beam.

Inevitably, we went back to the Victory dealer, I guess to see how bad the service could get. By the time we got there, Donald was in the garage.

He was personable and knowledgeable, and willing to spend the time with us to put our fears to rest. He tentatively diagnosed the problem as the switch, and after an amiable chat, we were once again on our way.

The morning was toast. Having seen a Pep Boys down the road, we stopped to top off the oil and assess our options.

The Ridge was at least a couple of hours down the road, and we planned on returning to home base for the night. Now we were looking at riding the entire afternoon - and that was without spending any time on the Blue Ridge.

It was lunchtime, and having found an interesting micro-brew lunch spot not far away on Google maps, we buzzed there to find an empty parking lot and closed sign on the door.

At least it wasn't raining.

So I called Elena to see if I could buy her lunch, and a short while later we were seated in a booth in an Asian food restaurant. This was a place Elena was fascinated with, and I could see why. They were doing a brisk lunch business, and the menu had an extensive selection of vegetarian as well as carnivorous choices.

Our meal was generous and flavorful, and the waitress pleasant and personable. Elena drank from a beautifully hewn coconut with a little umbrella, and Lonnie had a gallon-sized bowl of seafood soup.

We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly, recounting the morning's misadventures for Elena and talking about afternoon possibilities. Then, finally, with a collective contented sigh, we adjourned to the homestead and began to plan for what we'd hoped would be a better tomorrow.

Next: Back roads, fried chicken, and wine.

Of Better Angels and Gods of Par

I know some people get just as excited about going to church as going to the dentist. Liz and I count ourselves fortunate to have a wonderful church home - for all intents and purposes, an extended family.

On this particular Sunday, Lonnie and I enjoyed a classic order of worship with Guillermo and Elena in their congregation, a small group with simple traditional and welcoming values. I felt the hugs of my better angels.

Afterward, Guillermo and I ventured to the golf course. Despite the fact this is one of my favorite pastimes with him, I was distracted by a few concerns.

For one thing, I wondered whether he would be showing me up since I hadn't been on the course recently. We'd always been pretty evenly matched, and I was hoping I could count on that.

And then there was the issue of my limited wardrobe.

Golf courses have always been a little finicky about what you wear for this gentleman's sport, and I was a little concerned. My saddlebags aren't what I'd consider roomy. Besides space for bike essentials (such as bungies, rain gear, a tire gauge, and Twinkies), they do provide a little additional room for frivolities like dry underwear.

Well, actually, there's a little more room than that. Like, I don't have to stand in my underwear and boots while waiting for the dryer, trying to pass it off as a brave style choice. Still, I'm limited to a small selection of all-purpose garments that can be somewhat compressed in the process.

Not only had I worn a collarless biker T-shirt to church (it's okay, the pastor was a biker in his youth), but I wondered how my swing would be affected by wearing boots instead of cleated golf shoes.

Guillermo signed us up at the clubhouse and rented an excellent set of clubs for me. It was a gorgeous day and we started off on the first few holes a little better than usual. The balls were mostly going where we wanted and it was great to spend some quality time catching up.

As we rounded the corner to the 7th hole, Guillermo groaned. With my master's degree in science, I immediately saw the problem. There was a significant lake squarely between us and the flag.

Besides the clubs we chose for the tee, we chased some older balls out of his bag - that looked like they'd enjoy a swim. I thought to myself we could just toss them in as a sacrifice to the Gods of Par and ride the cart path around to the hole, but of course we had to give it a shot.

I stepped up to the tee, lined up, and took my practice swing. I did my best to visualize the ball arcing nicely to the flag. Then I planted, lined up the shot, wound up, and let fly.

Sure enough, the ball flew directly to the middle of the lake.

... And skipped off the surface up onto the other side and up to the green.

I couldn't have planned it better. I would say I've never seen anything like it before, but incredibly, I have. While playing a round with my sister and third son, Luigi, he did the same exact thing.

I guess it runs in the family.

Next: Lonnie and I head for the Blue Ridge - and don't make it.

Wild Bill's Root Beer and an Emergency Stop

You never know what you're going to run into on a long ride. Or for that matter, what'll run into you. Lonnie would prove that later, as we left Burgaw for Fayetteville, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

It had been a good day's ride. Diverse, bright and clear, with a cool destination and a nice smoke column distraction. Rolling into Burgaw, I was sure we would easily find the row of classic cars that attracted Guillermo, since it was such a small town.

Thing is, it wasn't such a small town. Not only that, but the road had been longer than expected, and it was dinnertime. The classic cars had all but vanished, though the town was still abuzz with the Blueberry Festival.

We parked, and I picked up my cell.

Guillermo and Elena were across the square from where we parked. The going was slow as we made our way through the crowd, but my butt was glad to be off the bike, and with the smell of funnel cakes in the air, the spring was back in my step.

Once we found Guillermo and Elena, it didn't take us long to find the funnel cake concession and then Wild Bill's root beer stand. There you could buy a somewhat pricey mug, but then fill it up as many times as you wanted.

The root beer hit the spot. It was cold and tasty, and the big pint-and-a-half tin mug had a satisfying feel to it.

We found a picnic table, and it was good to catch up a bit and talk about the grape leaf thingies that Elena had gotten for us to try. (I didn't think they were anything to write home about, but don't tell her.)

We checked out the BBQ sauce tent, watched a guy who looked like Santa in a hawaiian shirt, and took a few miscellaneous pictures. We didn't buy (or see, for that matter) any blueberries, though I'm sure we could've found some if we wanted.

Our hunger satisfied, we stuffed the souvenir mugs into our saddlebags, stopped at the gas station, and got behind Guillermo and Elena for the ride to their house in Fayetteville.

The car took the lead, Lonnie followed them, and I brought up the rear. Though the day was beginning to fade, it was perfect for riding, and with spirits high from meeting up - and buzzing from all the root beer - we rode west.

Suddenly, Lonnie seemed to lose power and started to slow down. My mind immediately went to the slow start at the gas station earlier, but soon it was clear there was more than a bike problem.

Lonnie was squirming.

I didn't know what to think, but as we pulled off on the grass shoulder, it was clear he wasn't making a leisurely stop. He was off his bike in a blink.

The wasp that had gone up his shirt sleeve had managed to sting him several times while he was stopping, so he wasted no time in dispatching it. I was just relieved it wasn't something more serious, and after he finished blowing off some steam, we had a good laugh about it.

By the time Guillermo had realized we dropped off, had turned around, and was arriving back where we were, we were getting back on the road to finish the day's ride.

Next: A Sunday Miracle on the Golf Course

Man and Bike Are One

It's one of the best parts of riding. The relationship between bike and rider is a mind-meld. All it takes is thinking "faster" and the machine anxiously complies. There isn't much that compares. On the other hand, it can be so responsive it'll scare the crap out of you.

As we drew near, I slowed to take stock in the massive smoke cloud. It was dumbfounding in its proportions.

In the last quarter mile, it was clear that a farm house was between us and whatever was causing the smoke. It was directly in front of us. At the last minute the road curved left in front of the house, and we were skirting the house and what was behind it. Relieved to be turning away from the column, but knowing we were right on top of it, I braced for the reveal.

I expected a scene filled with flashing lights, agitated firemen and arcing snakes of water - perhaps surrounding a broken and sooty fusilage. Instead, a small group of overall-clad men surrounded the tornado-sized vortex. These people were leaning on shovels.

Why they were burning the field, I'll never know.

At first it was a relief we weren't going to be stopping to assist with some kind of catastrophic recovery effort. Then it was just a relief all the smoke was going straight up and not across the road.

Lonnie and I rolled by, taking it in - just for a moment. Then, with a thought that we needed to keep moving to make for Burgaw, our bikes didn't hesitate.

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 ...