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| The author prepared for his adventure |
Wild Hog
in West VA
By Quentin
Smeltzer
Biker
culture means different things to different people and its meaning has changed
over the years. What hasn't changed is the feeling of exhilaration I feel
every time I get on two wheels. Whether it was on my Suzuki 185 Enduro
when I was a teenager, or the 2012 Street Glide I took possession of three
weeks ago now at the very young age of 56, it doesn't matter. It's still
a thrill every time I swing a leg over.
For years
I resisted the siren call of Harley, buying instead a succession of second-hand
Japanese and British bikes, each with their own particular charm. There
was the Suzuki Savage 650 that reconnected me to motorcycling after a twenty
year hiatus. The "Thumper" was a rat bike if ever there was
one, especially by the time I was finished with it. This was my Orange
County Choppers phase and I cut and stripped and spray painted that thing until
it looked like a flat black refugee from one of the Mad Max movies. Good
times!
I sold
that bike for no more than it was worth and bought a second-hand Honda
SuperHawk. If the Suzuki was too slow, the Hawk was too fast. I
felt perfectly comfortable on the Honda doing 110 miles per hour, watching the
cars zip by my shoulders and disappear into my rear view mirrors on the
highway; and these were the cars traveling in my direction! It finally
occurred to me that one should not feel comfortable at 110 miles per hour
passing cars like they were frozen in time. So I sold the SuperHawk and
bought a much more sensible Triumph America.
The
Triumph was comfortable and had that British cool thing going for it, but after
a few long trips with my Harley buddies I noticed I had to wring the 790 cc
motor's neck to get it to go and I had to absolutely stand on the brakes to get
it to stop. Plus it still wasn't "American iron."
Performance
trumped patriotism however, when I spotted a gorgeous, cardinal red Suzuki
SV650 at my local dealer. It had low miles, a Yoshimura exhaust and a
very friendly price tag. When the dealer fired it up right there on the
showroom and I heard that motor wind up with a snarl and then settle into a
menacing purr, it was a done deal. They got the Triumph and I got the SV,
and a nice check to go with it.
Now I had
a back roads carver, a bike that was an absolute blast to haul through
Connecticut back roads, but again there was the matter of trips to Americade
and Laconia with the Harley buddies. They thought I was joking when I
wanted to stop after each and every hour of travel and I wanted to cry after
each and every fifty minutes or so of dealing with a bone hard seat and aching
wrists. Aftermarket remedies did not help.
I thought
a lot about Harley but the economy, family and jobs situation kept that out of
reach. Instead I found a good compromise: a 2007 Kawasaki VN1600 Mean
Streak. This bike was certainly the closest I had ever come to having it
all: a measure of performance, comfort, and power. The bike would go, it
would stop, and you could hustle it down a back road, although it was certainly
no SV650.
I took the
Meanie on a long trip to Tennessee to ride the Tail of Dragon with the Harley
buddies and it was a pretty good tourer. But still, the low fuel light
came on at 110 miles and it was high drama by 150 miles. At that
distance, the Harley guys were just warming up. And truth to tell, even
on the Kawasaki, an hour of riding still had me wishing for a break.
That was
last year. This year I got the word from the Harley buddies: we were all
riding to a HOG rally in West Virginia. That's HOG as in Harley Owners
Group. I was going, of course, but I really wasn't looking forward to
being tied and sushi'd in the back woods of West VA. Scenes from
Deliverance haunted my dreams...
I started
beefing up the Kawasaki with a trunk bolted to my luggage rack, highway bars
and foot pegs for the bars. Still, I couldn't help wandering into a local
Harley dealership just to sort of, look around... I noticed the
Switchback looked small to me. After ten minutes no one spoke to me, so I
left.
Now there
were just a few weeks left before the West VA trip. I was riding with one
of the Harley buddies when we just happened to end up at Yankee Harley in
Bristol, CT. My buddy rides some kind of Ultra Heritage Chromeulous
Classic or something like that that costs more than I've ever paid for a
car. I sat on a lot of bikes at the Harley dealership but none fit my hands or my eye like the Street Glide. Still,
the price... We are talking more than three times as much as I had ever
paid for a bike in my life. But wouldn't it be something to buy a new
Street Glide? I knew that it would.
I left the
dealership with the salesman trailing me calling out lower numbers.
Evidently these weren't the bad old Harley days when bikes sold more than list
price. These guys wanted to deal. I thought about it. I
discussed it with my wife. We both agreed it made no sense to take on
what would amount to another car payment when I had a perfectly good bike in
the garage, already paid for. The Harley dealer continued to call and I
continued to work the numbers in my head. Maybe...
When they
hit the number I had in mind for a brand new 2012 Glide in Vivid Black with
cruise control, my resolve and common sense melted away. I explained to
my wife that there are many times when the heart overrules the head and this
was one of them. After all, if there weren't such moments, I probably
wouldn't be married. I am sure now that my heart had it right when I said
"I do" and I am beginning to think my heart had it right this time too.
The Street
Glide has power, comfort, range, stopping power, cruise control, the bat wing
fairing, the gauges, and that unmistakable rumble, even with the relatively
muffled standard pipes. Evidently you still get what you pay
for. Not to mention membership in the HOG club and a free tee
shirt! Buddy, I was so in!
There was
one slight problem. There was the issue about the guy I had invited to
the HOG rally largely because he rides a Star and I wanted some metric
companionship. I would have to break the news to him gently that I had
gone over to the orange and black side. But he's a good buddy,
comfortable in his own skin and, oh yeah, 72 years old! He doesn't give a
shiitake mushroom what anybody else is riding.
So the
plan was set: Ultra Harley buddy Ralph, Star-riding 72-year-old Joe and brand
new Harley tribe member I, would ride from CT to Western PA to spend a first
Sunday night at Ralph's brother's house. Simultaneously a couple of our
Harley buds would start riding south from the Toronto area, while yet another
contingent would start riding north from Naples, FL. The following
day, Monday, I would ride west to Ohio to see my 80 year old mom. Ralph,
brother John and Joe would tour West PA. On Wednesday, all of us would
rendezvous in Snowshoe, West VA for the rally.
There are
riding stories in the movies and in magazine articles and then there is riding
in the real world. In the movies everything goes wrong and the situation
gets worse and worse until suddenly there is a happy ending. In
motorcycle magazine stories it seems nothing ever goes wrong. The real
world is somewhere in between...
Now, the
good news is that Joe only ran out of gas once and crashed once that first
day. The running out of gas was interesting. Before we left on our
trip I asked Joe, yet again, to observe the "two second staggered
formation" rule. He assured me that he would. I think Joe may
need the rule re-explained to him at some point however, because instead of
riding in left, right, left formation roughly two seconds behind one another, Joe
seems to think the formation means he can drop half a mile back, and then run
up on my tail and then pass me and then drop back another mile, all within the
space of twenty minutes riding. Me, you will find two or three seconds
and half a lane staggered off Ralph's rear wheel. That's just the way it
is.
So when Joe
disappeared in my rear view mirrors after we passed some semi-truck traffic I
was unconcerned. You know about Joe and shiitakes and frankly, that
attitude is contagious.
A few more
miles wound off the odometer and I was as happy as a clam, although why clam
happiness is assumed is beyond me. Even with 200 miles showing on my trip
B odometer since our last fill up, I still had a third of tank of 91 octane
left to burn! Nice!
We were
coming up to a fork in the freeway and I was wondering how that might impact Joe
when I saw his blazing three lights reappear and rapidly grow in my
mirrors. Suddenly he was next to me. I looked over and found him
wide eyed and slapping his gas tank, the sign we had all agreed would mean it
was time to stop for gas.
I gestured
forward to Ralph as if to say to Joe, there's our leader right there, go up and
signal your need to stop to him, but Joe fell back behind me instead.
Sigh. I thought about waiting for Joe to figure this out but something
about the look of alarm in his eyes changed my mind. I pulled up next to Ralph,
signaled we needed to stop, and then took the lead to make sure it happened.
The next
exit had gas so I took us off the highway and then about a mile up a side road
to a Sheetz filling station. There, Joe told his story. He began by
looking at me and cracking, "You need to look in your rear view mirrors
once in a while."
I said
nothing.
"I
ran out of gas!" he continued.
"You
actually ran out?" I asked.
"Yes!
It started to sputter and then I couldn't find the reserve! So I had to
stop. I got it on reserve and then of course, I didn't want to ride too
fast to catch you guys because I was on reserve!"
So this
was my fault. Hmm... That he didn't know how to turn on his own
reserve, never rides in formation so I might have had a clue there was
something wrong when he dropped out of it, or didn't think that maybe it was a
good idea to catch us and lead us to a filling station once he found his
reserve switch: all, clearly, signs of bad judgement on my part. Ralph,
meanwhile, was still not entirely sure why we had stopped.
"Oh
well," Ralph said. "Might as well gas up here. My brother
lives just another fifty miles from here."
"That's
good," said Joe, "because I can't ride anymore."
I took
mental note of this comment, but Joe got back on his bike, and, really, he
didn't have a great deal of choice. It was hot, we were baked and we'd
already covered almost 400 miles, but the day was nearly over. I
figured we'd be ok.
After
another half hour on the interstate we pulled onto a secondary highway.
Then we began the process of finding John's place, meandering through the
beautiful green hills of Western PA. We rode through Latrobe, saw the
Arnold Palmer Airport, a gorgeous, castle like monastery, and many other
delightful, pastoral sights.
Ralph
missed a turn so we had to make a u-turn. Joe makes very wide u-turns,
but God bless him, he's still wrestling an 800 pound bike on a 400 mile day in
his seventh decade. I hope I have half that strength sixteen years from
now. Still, I can do a 720 in the time and space it takes him to do a
180, so I made my turn and tucked in behind Ralph once again. We came upon a narrow intersection and Ralph made a right. I did the same but I was surprised by
how sharply I had to turn to keep from straying into the oncoming lane. I
had to pull the clutch and the brake, downshift twice to first, nearly stop the
bike dead in its tracks and then power away smoothly.
As I drove
off I checked my mirrors for Joe. I saw his lights make the turn, but
then they seemed to not advance. I looked again. Joe was clearly
not advancing.
I honked
my horn several times to get Ralph's attention and saw him make eye contact
with me in his mirror. Then I turned my bike around in a driveway and
hustled back to help Joe.
I've come
to the "rescue" before so I knew the first instinct is to park your
own bike anywhere and jump off to rush to your friend's aid. With a
loaded Street Glide easily weighing 850 pounds, this could be a big
mistake. It could easily result in a second bike drop, or worse.
I scanned
the stopped cars, concerned bystanders and surrounding pavement to locate a
path to a safe spot to drop my stand. I carefully lowered the "Jiffy
Stand" which consistently freaks me out. It always feels like it is giving
way and never looks strong enough to support such a heavy machine. With
my bike safely parked, I hurried to Joe.
Joe was ok,
standing, and a group of bystanders were helping him right his bike. They
got it up just as I reached them and I helped them steady the bike. Joe
inspected the highway lights where the bike hit the pavement. There were
a few minor scratches, nothing more. Since his focus was on the bike, I
didn't think to ask if he was ok. He seemed to be. There were two
wet spots on the ground and I could smell gasoline.
Joe tried
to start the bike but it wouldn't go. We were still standing in the
middle of the street, stopping traffic in four directions. Someone
suggested we push the bike off the road and we agreed that was a good
idea. Someone who obviously was not a motorcyclist suggested pushing it
to a spot I could see would be difficult for Joe to back out of, but I could
see we did need to get out of the road.
We started
pushing but the bike rocked back on us. "I got it," said Joe,
realizing the bike wouldn't start because it was in gear. He sat on the
seat, hit the starter and after turning over a few times the bike barked back
into life.
"You
ok?" I asked Joe over the engine.
"Yah,
I'm fine," he replied. He put the bike in gear.
"I'm
sorry," said a woman bystander. She must have been the one driving
the car that forced Joe to make the tight turn to stay in his own lane.
"No,
I'm sorry," said Joe, and he rode off slowly.
I got on
my bike, swung around when the traffic allowed and followed.
About an
eighth of a mile down the road we found Ralph pulled over, waiting for
us. Joe and I both pulled over to wait for Ralph to resume lead
duties.
"What
happened?" said Ralph, but I was lip reading; I really couldn't hear him
over the sound of our three motors. I didn't feel like shouting "Joe
fell down" or something to that effect over the noise, so I just gestured
"Let's go" to Ralph instead.
Ralph
pulled out and we resumed our ride. A short time later we reached John's
house. John is a Catholic priest with a four bedroom house and several
refrigerators full of steaks and beer and a couple of humidors filled with cigars; what's not to like? He's got a BMW
touring motorcycle and a CVO Harley. He's got a Beemer Z4 sports car and
every other kind of gadget and improvement available. He treated us to
the aforementioned beer and stogies along with salad and fresh corn on the cob.
And did I mention the beer? Oh yeah, there was beer. John is so nice and
lives so well the church should use him for recruitment. Join the
priesthood and you too can live the dream! In truth John is the sweetest
guy you could imagine and obviously his whole focus in life is on serving and
taking care of others. If he gets a few toys and some nice cuisine out of
the deal, God bless.
After our
450 mile day on the highways under the blazing sun followed by steaks and beers
and good cigars it was time to turn catatonic. John's was the perfect
place to collapse, which I did, blissfully and early.
In the
morning I had to get up and get going. My plan was to visit my mother who
lives near my sister in Lancaster, Ohio. As much as I like riding with a
group it is equally a treat to ride alone. There are moments when you
wish your buds were there to see some amazing view or to share a surprise, or
rarely, to help you out of a jam, but it is also nice to go where you want to
go the way you want to get there, not to mention stopping when you want to stop
without explanation or apology.
I had
suffered no ill effects from the first day's ride except a couple of stripes of
sunburn on my upper biceps. I had worn a wicking shirt and a Shift
ballistic nylon jacket with the sleeves zipped off and stored in my
saddlebags. I had applied sunscreen up to the sleeves of my shirt, but I
hadn't taken into account that the wind would blow them up revealing two more
inches of unprotected skin. For day two, before setting out, I stripped
off my shirt and applied sunscreen from the back of my hands all the way to my
forehead.
I started
out around 7:30 am but I was headed in the wrong direction. I had to ride
50 miles east first to Zepka Harley Davidson in Johnstown, PA, to get my 1,000
mile service. I had 1,050 on the odometer at the time and I would have
2,700 miles by the time I got home to CT. I had picked Zepka out at
random from an internet search and stuck with that choice even when I realized
they were 50 miles out of my way. I just had a good feeling about the
place talking to the service manager, Ron, on the phone. Zepka was
great. They did the work quickly, well and inexpensively. They even
gave me a free ride to a restaurant where I got a good breakfast and started
writing this story over free coffee refills. Then it was off to Ohio for
real.
Since the
trip was almost entirely due west this would mean a lot more riding into the
sun. And it was hot. And cloudless. And almost 11:30 by
now.
My first
instinct was to get on the interstate, which I did, but I grew tired of that
pretty quickly. Instead, I told my gps to avoid highways. The
device immediately took me off the highway and onto beautiful, narrow, winding,
country lanes. Maybe too winding. The terrain was hilly and my gps
was taking me southwest. I'm not sure what it was thinking although it
must have had something to do with finding a crossing over the Ohio River that
wasn't the bridge on I-70 at Wheeling.
The back
roads were ridiculously narrow in places and they climbed and plunged,
frequently with turns requiring 15 miles per hour or less. The Street
Glide is a big machine but it handles well and the engine pulls all day long
like a locomotive. Fortunately, too, I am an experience rider. Not
Ewan McGregor experienced, but I've ridden 10,000 miles on two wheels every
year for the past twelve. And that doesn't count the dirt biking I did as
a kid. That's enough saddle time to know what I'm doing.
Still,
when I saw the signs warning or "Fresh Chips and Oil" I was not
pleased. In case you are wondering, this wasn't announcing the
availability of some tasty snack up ahead; this was informing me that the
narrow, twisty, mountain road I was on was also, for the foreseeable future,
covered in a fresh coating of wet tar oil and loose gravel. Okay then...
Still, I
soldiered on as I appeared to be in the proverbial middle of nowhere with not a
lot of choice. The hills were beautiful, as were the fields and the
mountains when the vistas opened. Little tar-paper shacks and half
collapsed houses dotted the road from time to time. Occasionally I would
drive though a "town" consisting of three or four houses clustered
together and perhaps an abandoned gas pump. Did I mention the six gallon
tank on the Street Glide and mileage approaching 50 per? Wonderful!
But
eventually the dust and the work effort grew to be too much, especially as I
also did not seem to be making any real progress towards Lancaster. I
arrived at something looking like a real town and filled up with gasoline,
Gatorade and 5-Hour Energy. Then I told the gps, I surrender; do not
avoid highways. The gps immediately put me on I-79 North! I rode
twenty miles straight north only to find myself back on I-70 West, still very
much in Pennsylvania and still riding under and into a broiling sun.
Finally I
came to the bridge that crosses the Ohio River and sailed across it, feeling
pretty good about things all in all. That feeling came to an abrupt halt
when I saw the construction and the miles-long line of traffic ground to a halt
in a single lane leading up the hill into Ohio.
No
problem; I was ready for a change, so I told my Garmin to avoid highways once
again and immediately got off I-70. The gps took me a few miles north and
then through a small town with a lot of red lights. I've heard Harley's
can overheat but mine has the new feature where the engine drops to firing on
just one cylinder when stopped to help cool the engine. You can hear and
feel it when it drops to one cylinder and the technology seems to work because
I had no issues. Soon enough I was climbing into the hills heading west
again.
Now I was
on 250 West in Ohio, a great motorcycle road, filled with sport bikes enjoying
the high plateau sweepers. It was pure joy to find this road. On
and on it went and I stopped only once or twice for hydration or an energy
bar. Then it turned into 22-West and the great times continued.
Eventually though, I encountered I-77. The gps said to head south.
I was hoping this was the highway that would take me to Lancaster, but no such
luck. Soon I was back onto I-70 West for another grueling stint directly
into the merciless sun. Two-wheeled suffering at its best. If
you've done it, you know what I mean.
Finally my
gps relented and put me onto 13 South which soon turned into 188 West which
took me to my mom's house. It was a blast racing through farmland on a
two lane country road. But looking at a map now I see I could have stayed
on 22 West and travelled southwest all the way to Lancaster! Note to
self: next time open up a map, buddy! Gps will get you there, but you
never know where you are or what you might be missing!
The visit
with my mom was bitter sweet; she isn't doing very well. But I was
grateful that my bike and this trip afforded the opportunity to see her.
Wednesday
morning I got up, packed and left for West Virginia and my first ever HOG
rally. Visions of burnouts and wild women danced in my head, but, being
fifty six, married, and knowing my friends as I do, going to bed at 10 pm after
a beer and a cigar was far more likely to be in the cards.
For this
leg of the trip I actually had looked at a map the evening before. I used
Google Maps on my iPad. From that study I knew I wanted 33 South to 50
East to 79 South. The trip really needn't be more complicated than
that. There was, however, this intriguing bit of winding mountain road
off of 50 down to West VA's 33 if I dared take it after my Oil and Chips
adventures in Ohio. I thought it said it was route 119 but that proved to
be wrong. It was 18 South.
I set off
enjoying the civilized roar of my stock Harley, the wind, the sun, and the
largely empty freeways. What was less enjoyable was the periodic kick in
the kidneys some Ohio highways delivered. I don't know if these were
frost heaves, pavement joints or what, but note to Ohio and a few other
states: highways should not have speed bumps. I'm just saying...
I made the
turn from 33 South to 50 East and motored on. The sun beat straight
down. 50 was more of a freeway and less of a highway than I would have
preferred. I love cruise control in a car and found it every bit as
valuable on my Street Glide. I turned on the stereo and listened to
Dwight Yoakum holler soulfully about being 1,000 miles from nowhere:
"I'm
a thousand miles from nowhere
Time don't
matter to me.
I'm a
thousand miles from nowhere
And
there's no place I'd rather be..."
Sweet.
50 East grew monotonous however and I looked with desire upon the rolling green
hills to my right. I knew that if I got off the highway too soon I could
get tangled up in a morass of back-hills twisties that would consume my day
without moving me closer to my destination. And my tricky gps had already
been known to insist I travel on a road that turned to dirt and then to deeply
rutted and washed out dirt. Wrestling an 820 pound Harley into a 180 on a
rutted dirt road is a little too much drama for me, thanks just the same.
I held out
a while longer and then, just feeling that the time was right, I told the gps
to avoid highways once again. I felt good about the result
immediately. The gps said I should do another 20 miles on 50 before
getting off. Just as interesting, my expected arrival time had not
appreciably changed. Taking a backroads diagonal to Snowshoe instead of
driving miles east on 50 and then miles more back southwest on 79 should have
had that effect.
The gps
took me off on route 18 where I was hoping it would say 119, but that's only
because I can't read a map properly. 18 was exactly the road I
wanted. Once again I was tooling and roaring through mountain roads
adorned with gorgeous vistas and punctuated by rich farms and poor hovels.
I ate at a
Subway and arrived at Snowshoe at about 3:30 pm. My room wasn't ready but
they asked me to pay the balance on it, which I did. I learned that to
register for the rally I was to drive to the top of the mountain, seven miles
up Snowshoe Drive, to the ski resort. I spent my high school years in
Utah driving cars on the roads to Alta and Snowbird, Big Cottonwood Canyon and
Little Cottonwood Canyon, roads and peaks that would get your attention, so I
was not a bit intimidated by this short, mountain ride.
I was
surprised by the cold however. I shouldn't have been; the temperature
always drops when you climb. Still I wondered about the wisdom of having
a Harley rally in such a cool environment. I signed into the rally and
returned down the mountain, using engine drag to handle most of the braking
chores.
The other
guys had arrived by now. There was Joe, John and Ralph, Barry and Steve
from Florida and Lou and Larry from Canada. The gang was all
assembled.
We ate
dinner at a place down the road and I went for a two mile run followed by a dip
in the hot tub. Not bad. And then I joined the guys for a beer and
a cigar by the front doors of the inn.
The next
day was a 200 mile romp through the mountains led by our resident speed demon, Steve.
Steve was riding a gorgeous, new CVO Street Glide that would have been even
more gorgeous if Barry hadn't ridden into the back of it on the way here.
Whoops! Could happen to anybody.
I was
feeling the need for speed myself, so, after the first leg of our trip, I
negotiated my way into the number two spot behind our leader. The big
Harley is certainly no sport bike; you never feel like you're standing on your
front wheel, steering with the throttle and the rear wheel, but the big girl
can hustle.
At the end
of the day we rode back up the mountain to check out the rally, but frankly,
there wasn't much going on. We wandered around a bit but failed to find
the bar that would honor our two free beer tickets. In truth, we were
tired from another day on the road; we didn't try very hard.
We rode
back down off the mountain and set about finding a Thursday night dinner.
There was a little barbecue place in a trailer in the Inn's parking lot called
Woodys Bar B Q Shack. And we could buy cases of cold beer from a
shop across the street. Perfect. Maybe it was the altitude or the
fatigue, but the pulled pork sandwich, slaw and fries were some of the best
I've ever eaten. The dinner set me back all of $6 and I don't think I've
ever had a better meal. This was my idea of Wild Hog!
I did my
nightly run and hot tub combo, and then met the guys for a few toasts over a
couple of shots of cold Giro tequila. Good stuff. And that was about
it. No burnouts, no wild women. We didn't rob any liquor stores
that I can remember. Just a lot of great riding with some good
friends. There was still the matter of getting home, however.
Now, when
I invited Joe to join me on this adventure, mostly because he is a good friend
and part of the group, but partly so I wouldn't be the only metric guy at the
rally, a couple of things had happened. Joe had agreed to come but
simultaneously he had invited himself to share my room in Snowshoe and then
accompany him to Chantilly, Virginia, to spend a day visiting his son, Kip.
Like a dummy, without much thought, I had said yes.
At some
point I realized that instead of riding with Ralph and John back to John's
comfortable house where I would have my own bedroom, and all that great food
and drink, not to mention the Western PA riding which I had missed when I went
to Ohio, I would be riding to the congested Washington DC area to sleep on some
kid's floor. This realization displeased me and I voiced my concerns to Joe.
Joe insisted that Kip had riding buddies who would take us on some great rides
and implied that I would have a bed to sleep in. So what the heck; off to
Chantilly we rode Friday morning in a light, cool rain.
There was
another problem, however. While packing up my bike to leave West VA,
somehow my rain pants had disappeared. I looked everywhere to no
avail. The only conclusion I could draw was that I had dropped them and
someone had decided to keep them. I checked with the front desk but no one had
turned them in. So I was dressed in my camping pants, which I usually
wear on long trips instead of jeans. The nylon material wicks moisture
and they are much more comfortable on long rides. They are also quite
thin; good for hot days. They would be totally useless if I ever hit the
pavement but I figured jeans wouldn't be a lot better. I also put on my
electric vest--a total life saver--and my rain jacket, which I had managed to
keep track of. And off we went.
We climbed
through the mountains in the steady drizzle. Despite the electric vest
keeping my core warm, my legs were soon freezing. Finally I couldn't take
it anymore and pulled to the side of the mountain road. I changed my wet
socks and put on my second pair of camping pants over the first pair. I
upgraded my gloves from summer gloves to my winters, clicked up the vest
another notch, and off we went once again.
We had
taken 219 North to 250 West which would take us to Waynesboro and the base of
the Skyline Drive. The rain had stopped before Waynesboro once we had
dropped out of the mountains and I was comfortable once again. We stopped
at a gas station/Subway sandwich shop combo and fueled up the bikes and
ourselves. Then we followed 250 through and out of Waynesboro until we
found the entrance to the Skyline Drive.
We paid
our $10 to enter but Joe took a long time at the booth. I figured he was
arguing for a cheaper entrance price--you can have a real debate over who is
cheaper, Joe or me. But it turns out he was pumping the ranger for
information.
We drove
the skyline which is majestic in its beauty. Something about being on a
road in the middle of all that mountain wilderness is stirring. I had
ridden the Skyline before but I had forgotten how hypnotic the drive is.
I feared it was putting me to sleep so I cranked up the tunes a bit on the
stereo--sacrilegious in that wilderness, I know, but better than driving off
the road.
We finally
pulled off at route 211 East, and made our way to the house where Kip rents a
room in Chantilly. There was a bit more gps controversy as I had avoid
highways still switched on, and Joe was convinced we had gone the wrong way,
but after some spirited riding through some gorgeous Virginia farm country, now
mostly converted to country estates, we arrived safe and sound.
After a
day of chilling and checking out the amazingly large space shuttle at the Air
and Space museum at Dulles Airport, but no promised riding, we set off for home
on Sunday the 15th. I don't think Kip understood why I let his 72 year
old father sleep on the floor while I took the bed and Kip got the couch
upstairs, but Joe insisted he was fine and, hey, an implied deal is still a
kind of a deal...
There was
rain in the forecast but low and behold I had found my rain pants in the bottom
of one of my duffels. Joe chided me for assuming theft, and really, I
might need to upgrade my opinion of humanity just a notch.
We rode
off in hot, humid weather with storm clouds on the horizon up ahead. When
the road shifted north it looked like we might avoid them but when it veered
back east we were headed into their maw. To avoid 95 we had decided to
take 50 West to 15 North. The plan was to ultimately get on 287 which
would take us to 84 East across the Newburgh Bridge, avoiding much of the
traffic around the New York City area.
The ride
up 15 was pleasant and we detoured into Gettysburg and saw some of the sights
as we navigated to a McDonald's for a cup of coffee and a bio break. Then
we forged on. The weather continued to threaten and the sky darkened and
then I could smell the unmistakable smell of summer rain. And then the
rain hit.
We pulled
over at a truck stop and donned our rain gear. Joe said maybe we wouldn't
see any more rain since we'd gone to the trouble of struggling into our rain
suits but no such luck. It continued to rain. And then it started
raining hard.
I always
say that riding in rain is fine as long as I'm not freezing and I can
see. I wasn't cold but visibility was becoming a problem. I could
barely make out Joe's taillight through the heavy downpour. The rain streamed
down my face and into my jacket and my pants. Traffic was heavy and
cars and trucks passed us.
Then a new
problem reared its head. My eyes began to sting. The pain became
intense. I was literally growling in pain, squeezing my eyes closed and
then opening them, hoping to blink away the maddening irritant. I can
only guess it was my sunscreen running into my eyes. Whatever it was the
pain was nearly unbearable. It also meant that not only were we dealing
with fifty feet of visibility, but half the time my eyes were closed!
Fortunately
Joe pulled over at an overpass. There were already four bikes there and a
group of riders waiting out the rain. Our bikes wouldn't fit under the
bridge so we maneuvered them as best we could on the shoulder away from the
traffic and got ourselves, at least, out of the rain.
There I
was able to clear my burning eyes.
We talked
bikes and our travels with the other riders while we waited out the rain.
Two of them were riding two-up on 2012 Street Glide exactly like mine except
that it was Denim Black instead of Vivid Black. For those of you who
don't know, that meant it was flat black instead of gloss black. I had
preferred the Vivid Black at the showroom but that Denim Black Street Glide
looked awfully good covered in rain drops...
The skies
cleared a bit and we decided to push on. There was the very scary
business of rejoining the heavily trafficked highway from a standing stop on
the shoulder on wet pavement but that went smoothly and we were both on our way
once again.
The ride
was uneventful until Joe's EZ Pass wouldn't register at the toll booth after
the Newburgh Bridge and he had to fish $1.50 out of his wet riding
clothes. I was in another lane and mistakenly thought he was with another
group of riders I saw up ahead so I took off to the catch them. Only when
I caught them, no Joe.
I stopped
at the rest area on the big hill on 84 just before Danbury and waited.
Sure enough, Joe came toodling along and I rejoined him. I was happy I
waited; I had promised Joe to have his back on this trip and really didn't want
to explain to his wife that he had vanished just thirty miles short of
home.
We rode
through Danbury as traffic predictably slowed on 84. This was the only
unavoidable traffic we had seen this entire trip. The stop and go was
tolerable, but only just so, on the Harley. There were multiple accidents
in the wet conditions on 84 and we could see the lights of many emergency
vehicles on the highway up ahead. I finally had had my fill and I ditched
84 at exit 9 and blissfully took 25 to the back roads that lead to my
house.
Joe made
it too and I called him soon after. He thanked me for a great trip and I
thanked him. He asked if still owed me for half of the room in West
Virginia and I said, "Yep."
"Yep,"
he echoed, as if he was hoping for some other response.
We had had
a great time, we had made it home safely and we were still friends. You
can't do better than that. Only, I'm still not sure which one of us is
cheaper.
