The Double-Clutched Bus

“Did that really happen?”

 

After so many years, I am still asked this question, and usually from a highly-skeptical person using a highly-skeptical tone. I am always obliged to say yes, as a matter of fact, it did, and to add, there’s probably quite a bit that I’ve forgotten. It was, after all, over thirty years ago. Specifics are fading, as are some other finite details, but the main events remain. I decided I probably ought to sketch it down before more memories lapse, or God forbid, one of us moves on. To comment, we were all so very young, and with that comes silliness and stupidity, but also triumph and indelible glory. Well, maybe in our eyes. 

You see, it all revolves around this beast pictured above, or one just like it. Sadly, this isn’t a photo of the actual object at the center of attention, but for the purposes of this exercise, it’s pretty much identical. That, my friends, is a 1970 Volkswagen Type 2, also known as a kombi (as on the manual), but here in the United States, we just call it a bus. I was fresh out of college, and by that I mean that I had dropped out for work and music. And because I dropped out, my contingent parental college gift -- a completely dangerous Datsun 280Z in two-tone blue/silver -- had been reclaimed and later sold <sniffle>. I loved that car. It was fast, fun to drive, and the gals liked it, but it was out to murder me. 145mph top speed logged on the only lengthy straightaway of Price Road in Hall County, GA. At night. Insanity. Youthful invincibility.

Now for its replacement, and here’s the first casualty of memory. I can’t remember where I bought it, or the circumstances. I only recall it being sort of hippie-cool, utilitarian, and that it only cost $800. The previous owner removed all but the front seats and installed a carpeted bench over the engine compartment at the rear. I’d have no trouble hauling my huge 12-piece double-bassed Tama drum kit to rehearsals and gigs. A relief actually, since I had to completely dismantle them -- small drums placed inside larger drums -- to fit them in the Z. In fact, there was so much new cargo space inside that bus that I could set them up and actually play them while sitting on that back bench. And that’s when someone got a bright idea, but let me rewind a bit.

Something akin this one, except this one’s much nicer.

The kombi soon gained a reputation amongst my closest friends as the default party wagon. I was a (usually) safe driver and we always made it home somehow after a late night of rehearsing or partying. Someone always had the run of their parent’s house back then -- any given weekend. We ran in musical circles, so often times those parties involved a band, or a few of them, jamming until the wee hours in front of folks dancing between the wreckage of bottles and Solo cups. After all the music and consuming, and consummation!, the bus doors opened and we escaped into the night at a blistering 60mph. That was all the VW could manage on a flat road after 17 years of duty with an oil-gobbing 60hp engine, where it could be certain that some of its horses had escaped, and many of its torques had petered. We were in constant danger of a traffic citation too, for uphill on the local Interstate 985, our speed would occasionally dip below the 40mph minimum. That later became one of our challenges on the long rides home to Gainesville Georgia from our Atlanta rehearsals. We all took turns at the wheel, trying desperately to outdo each other. What’s the fastest a VW bus can go, anyway? More about that later.

The bandmate that accompanied me most was Monty. While he owned a slick silver Mazda RX-7 that wasn’t good for band transport, even for just himself. He is a bassist (yay to rhythm section pals!) of dashing demeanor who possesses a keen wit for sarcasm, and loved goofing around on the bus. His forever guitarist buddy is Jimmy -- another hilarious fellow -- and the three of us would sometimes get bored late at night when Gainesville slept. Small town blues, but Monty and Jimmy were devilishly inventive where adolescent clandestine entertainment was concerned. Especially when they brought along yet another psycho named Chad, who didn’t play any instrument, but Jesus he could DRIVE. The bus soon became employed in our hooligan shenanigans. Nothing by the roadside was safe, but the specialty became -- well, I’ve no pet name for it, but the activity involved towing a slightly-weighted plastic milk or Clorox jug with fishing line through various neighborhoods. Whose could last the longest? Who could make the farthest distance from the bus? Who would lose a finger if the line wrapped around a mailbox and they forget to let go? This went on for days until one of the guys saw my drum kit set up and thought it would be fun for them to drive me around while I performed a solo.

Click…

Okay, you can guess where this was going.

A short time afterward, Monty and Jimmy showed up with their instruments, their amplifiers, and small Honda gasoline-powered generator outputting just enough juice to power them. Chad was there too. Band in a van. Chauffeured, no less. One problem though; the generator exhaust. That could suffocate us quite easily if we weren’t careful, so we placed it on the rear bench with the muffler pipe aimed towards the rear vent window. That sort of worked while underway, but not 100%. Not even 80% actually, and over several minutes, that residual 20% escalated to intolerable levels. A short jam, then off for venting. No worries; Jimmy wasn’t in the same band as Monty and I at that time, so we only knew one song between us. “Balls to the Wall” by Accept. Metalheads us…

Off we went! First, through the suburbia of Oakwood, GA then towards the east. We snapped onto the interstate headed north towards Gainesville. Chad was ambitious and we were game, so a speed record attempt was in order. Now folks (and you can read this in that announcer for the Dukes of Hazzard announcer’s voice), this is there the boys seemed like they were in a heap of trouble. ‘Cept we weren’t. Just absolutely nuts, but if you ask any of us, yes, this actually happened too. Chad gave that bus every last inch of the rod managing to land us somewhere above 70mph at the top of a long northbound downhill before I-985’s (then) Exit 6 in Gainesville (now Exit 22). The speed grew quickly, and the kombi’s 4^th gear wound the engine likely well past red-line (there was no tachometer) 80mph..90..

The above is a photo-embellished reenactment, but I can personally attest seeing it from over the kit. Our best guess was that Chad had somehow hit 108mph at the bottom of that hill. Four lunatics in a rickety old van. Balls to the Wall.

Chad took us around the city, through downtown and the Lakeshore Mall area just to the south. All the turned heads when we passed…priceless. But it was one song, over and over and over. You’d think we had ample time to work up another, but NOPE -- it was Accept or death! We came close to that, as a matter of fact. Not because of Chad’s piloting, but because we were not exactly mindful to take ventilation breaks. Too late, we were gassed and choking. This *is* nuts! And, like the resourceful idiots we were, someone always came up with a crazy solution. I don’t recall if it was Chad himself or one of us who put Chad up to it, but what came next was grand theft auto. Well, sort of. It was actually Chad theft daddy’s BBQ catering bus. It had plenty of jam space and a built-in generator. Perfect, except we did not, in any way, have permission to take it from his lot in Oakwood.

You might observe that I’m playing fast and loose in using “perfect” to describe our endeavor. Four kids were about to embark on Round Two of mayhem using a converted school bus for barbeque catering. I believe it even had a shingled roof. No memory of pig artwork, though. Maybe “perfect” would then be accurate. We loaded up, tuned the instruments, made a quick sound check (with what else!) and set off for Gainesville.

Along the way we recognized a car that had been following us around the mall area. Don’t know why they tailed us. Same song over and over? Maybe it was a morbid curiosity thing. We were bound to get arrested somehow. It was now after 11pm and we were surely breaking a local noise ordinance. Besides, why was a BBQ bus out so late? Nonetheless, this late-70s/early-80s electric blue Pontiac Firebird had been tailing us, and he was on our bumper yet again. Odd, but he finally peeled off when we ventured down historic Green Street. That was sure to gain the wrong sort of attention. For those who don’t know, it’s lined with gorgeous Antebellum mansions used now mostly for offices, but back then, a handful remained private residences.  How dare we? Then another brilliant idea happened.

Monty and either Chad or Jimmy (I can’t remember) were dating a couple sorority gals who lived at the all-female Brenau College (now University) campus nearby. What could go wrong if we stopped for a visit? Everything, of course. We found a suitable lot off Prior Street across from Crudup Hall and parked. While the guys were dancing in the dark, Dunkin’s Finest surrounded the catering bus, flashlights a blazin’, radios a crackin’ with a third hand on their sidearms. Brenau’s ace security force had been watching us and called in the heavies. Three cruisers pinned the bus (and us) while they completed a search. Monty and (let’s just say it was Jimmy) was still in the dorm. Now, as far as I was concerned, I was merely a passenger. I hadn’t invaded a sorority house after curfew, and the bus was Chad’s albatross. I just sat and kept silent while everything unfolded. Chad did the talking and finally the other guys materialized down a sidewalk that wouldn’t implicate any particular dorm. All I remember after several minutes was that morbid cackle from one of the patrolmen’s radios, “Uh, <crack> Mister Vaughn’s gettin’ his pants on, said he’d be there in twenty minutes.”

Shit.

Well, this would be awkward. Although Monty and Jimmy were familiar, I’d never met Chad’s father and this certainly wasn’t the sort of introduction I preferred, but, sure enough, twenty minutes later, there he was. You can imagine the fussing that ensued, but Mr. Vaughn was quite the pragmatic and his rhetoric was curt. With a seething glare, he told me just to ride on the bus with Chad until we got back to the lot in Oakwood. Unload and go. Nothing else. He didn’t need to say anything else; his expression said everything. Don’t let me see you face again.

No problem.

I believe that was the fastest break-down and reloading job I ever did. In just a few minutes (if more than two!) we were back in the kombi headed home. Except poor Chad, that is. He had to pay for his crime. I can’t recall if we saw him anytime soon after that night, either. As for us, we were now marked men, and it behooved us to call it a night. We escaped jail -- heck, we even escaped a lecture! --  and it was best not to tempt lurking demons. One by one, I dropped off the guys and their equipment, then headed home. My bet was we all laughed a little going to sleep that night. I mean, who does this? Four numbnuts from Hall County, that’s who, and just ask any one of us if it’s real. You can ask one more guy too. That blue Firebird? We later discovered that it belonged to one of Gainesville’s most notoriously lovable loons, Med Lindorme, who indeed admitted he just wanted to see the looks on everyone’s faces as we blasted past them, and how we would eventually meet our doom. Complete bastard, this guy. <ducks>


Now, this story could end right there. Any glory for my old VW was certainly sealed that night, but it has quite an epilogue to tell.

               

The bus would go on a few more months. We partied more, and it was a reliable shuttle for those Atlanta rehearsals. Yet, I kept noticing it was consuming more and more oil. Well, as the dreaded foreshadowing mandates, Monty and I were departing an Atlanta musical shindig on the west side of Tucker when another drummer needed a lift. Not too far, he said, just down to the Morningside-Lenox area. I had no idea where this was, but hey, he was a drummer, so drummer-brothers unite! Bad call as it turned out. About two miles before the Cheshire Bridge Road, Lenox exit on I-85 southbound, the engine suddenly grew loud with the pinging racket of a diesel. The oil!  I knew what the problem was but I had to find an exit near a gas station and pronto. Druid Hills Rd exit had what we needed and was coming up fast, but a line of traffic cut me off completely from the off ramp. Missed! The noise grew louder as I reduced speed, but it was too late. The engine ceased with a loud bang, locking the rear tires before I nailed the clutch and found neutral. We were coasting towards the Cheshire Bridge/Lenox exit now, all downhill, but I saw no gas stations. There was no time for dour reflection. I managed the exit and made a quick right to coast away from a busy intersection, coming to a stop in front of an apartment complex just beyond a short bridge crossing Peachtree Creek. All was quiet.

“You smell something?” came from our passenger, and both Monty and I looked back at him. We immediately weren’t looking at our drummer friend though, as thick black smoke and flames were billowing from the kombi’s rear air intakes.

“We’re on fire!”

We jumped out in a panic, but there wasn’t much to do. You could see the flames broiling inside the engine compartment through the cracks in the rear hatch. Not good. The gas tank was located right below the engine, and it was going to explode at some point, Hollywood-style. I thought about any valuables. None. Wait a minute… My high school class ring was in the glove box! I never wore it when performing or practicing, and I grew out of wearing rings completely. Messed with my sticking and well, skin rashes. Anyway, I still wanted it and went back to get it. Monty yelled for me to get back, kind of laughing at the whole thing. We were stuck an hour from home with no ride. Guys like us tend to laugh during stressful moments anyway. I was too, just not nearly as much as Monty. The other guy -- the drummer -- was just speechless. We meant to give him a lift, now we needed one ourselves. But… back to the bus.

I chased down some poor old country mechanic who had the grand misfortune to make the bottom of the exit ramp about the time my bus’ rear was visibly engulfed. “YO! Any chance you have a fire extinguisher?” He hopped out and opened the tailgate to his camper-topped pickup. “Well, I think I might.” He said lazily with a heavy drawl. He dug around the piles of tools and construction waste he had amassed for several glacial moments. I didn’t think about it when I just jumped in and started tossing stuff around. I found the extinguisher within seconds, thanked him profusely and ran back to the bus. Some onlookers from the apartment complex had come to witness its demise by that point, but I was armed with Mighty Red Can now. It was one of those powder-filled varieties meant to fight kitchen fires. Couldn’t hurt, I thought.

First was to douse the flaming intake vents. I sprayed into the right side and found success, so I took the left down a couple seconds later. Now I was faced with the engine compartment. How to get it open though? Monty was bowled over by the bridge, laughing too hard to think straight, and the other drummer was AWOL as far as I could tell. That’s when one of the guys from the apartment complex sashayed over. Tight T-shirt, short running shorts (it was summer), and flip-flops. I had no idea what was to come next. In a flaming (pun intended), effeminate voice, he asked, “You want us to start a bucket train?”

Monty had an out-of-body experience. Had to. He was laughing so hard, I thought he was about to jump off the bridge. Funny, yes, but hey, what do I care? These guys were here and offering help.

“Yes, that’d be great.” I said, and man did they hop to it. Not a minute passed -- and thankfully the flames grew no worse -- before several of those apartment guys were lined up with pots and pans full of water, awaiting instructions. I told one of them that our goal was to access the engine compartment to get at the main fire with the extinguisher, but the problem was the pushbutton latch. The fire had it red hot, so probably best to hit it with a couple pans of water before attempting to open it. We staged ourselves, Monty bawling in the background, and counted down. 3…2…1! Two pans of water splashed on the rear hatch and clasp, steaming off as it hit. The lead apartment guy reached for the latch as I stood ready to blast the compartment with powder. Now folks, once or twice in a lifetime will you hear such as sound that will haunt you forever. This was one of those times for me.

There simply is no good way to describe the screech of an overtly homosexual man when he painfully burns himself, but it went something French-like—“EEEEEEAAAAUUUOOOOWWWWW”—somewhere between the death of a kitten and Jackie Gleason’s “And awaaay we go!” Unforgettable, but he did get the latch open, probably leaving a few dermis layers attached.

There it was, a boiling picture of hell itself. The entire compartment was being doused with gasoline from a (now) loose fuel line with pressure building from the tank. Fuel spewing and igniting in random patterns, the cauldron growing brighter now that it had access to more oxygen. Now was my moment to be the hero. I stepped up and squeezed the trigger. Nothing but a spit. I shook the container furiously and tried again. Nothing. The bottle was empty.

While gripping his hand in pain, the Champion of the Latch called his buddies over and they made quick work of the fire with their bucket train. In a moment, it was out and smoldering—a charred, black lump of wires and melted hoses -- probably a total loss. We took a breath or two to congratulate ourselves, and I wondered, where was the fire department in all this time?

A couple minutes after the apartment guys made contact, they automatically called the Atlanta FD. I heard sirens for several minutes but they always seem to just pass on by. Around ten minutes after the fire was out, Fat Albert and his gang pulled up in his pumper truck, had me sign a bunch of paperwork, and made his inspection. “Man, that looks bad. It’s looks out but we gonna put it out more.” Out came the hoses and they blasted the entire bus with water until no smoke or steam was evident. If the bus wasn’t a loss before, it surely was now. Monty finally stopped laughing….for the moment. How were we to get home?

We were squatting on the curb with a dripping heap in front of us. The smell of rank burnt plastic and leaded paint permeated everything. Somehow the buses tires were intact, as was most of the van, actually. Although thoroughly soaked inside and out, the fire had somehow been contained to the engine compartment. The tires were fine, as were the chassis mechanicals -- steering and brakes still worked, as did the clutch and transmission shifter. I asked the apartment guys if I could park the van in their lot overnight. I’d have it picked up the next day with a rented tow bar for my father’s old Chevy truck. “Sure” they said. “You guys need a ride somewhere?”

Monty gave a curt “Nope!” from the curb. No way was he taking a ride from those guys. Oh well. So how were we to get home anyway? That’s when our passenger finally chimed in, offering to give is a ride all the way back to Monty’s parents’ home in Oakwood. We would be hoofing it to the drummer’s house though, still a few miles away. After parking the van and thanking the apartment guys -- noble and brave sacrifices all -- we set off southward down Cheshire Bridge Road.

Oops! I overlooked one item; we’d been at a party, and at this time in our lives, we were doing the big-hair heavy metal thing. Ahh, the ‘80s! But there we were, the three of us with teased and hairsprayed tresses draped over those spiffy Don Johnson linen jackets, leather ties, bleach-blotted dungarees and colored leather Oxfords…in the gayest part of town…on foot. Now, Monty would say that we were better off not taking advantage of the apartment guys’ offer, and I’d probably agree, but it was equally and hilariously just as bad being whistled at by carloads of locals for that several mile trot. If an inanimate object could project karma, my poor Volkswagen was having its revenge. Finally, we made it to (Duff’s?) mother’s house, requisitioned her Mustang, and made it back to Oakwood in the middle of the night. From there, Monty and I hopped in his RX-7 and blazed for North Hall and home.

The next day went as planned. We rented a tow bar for the bus and drove the old ’63 Chevy pickup down to Atlanta. It had no trouble hauling the charred hulk back to Gainesville. Maybe it was still worth something after all? The tires were still good as new! That’s what my uncle Chesley ultimately saw in it, buying it off me, mercifully, for $200 a few days later. That happened to be the exact cost of the tires I installed just a few weeks earlier, so I was okay with it. Who else would take a burnt wreck? But then it was gone, and that was that.



---
To comment, I catch myself noticing today’s kids glued to their little screens, and I wonder what their best-imagined form of civil disobedience might be. Hacking the school library? COS-pranking the local mall? Protesting a presidential tweet? I'm glad that's not everybody.

Solitary Liberation

   What, exactly, goes through one’s mind when contemplating a 1,400-mile solo ride from central Florida to perhaps the nation’s most championed motorcycling roads of North Carolina’s Great Smokey Mountains? It was a neural soup actually, but here’s how it went…

The supreme notion began many years ago as a daydream while watching a Tour de France broadcast. Mountain biking was a favorite pastime of mine for many years before I moved back to Florida and switched to road bicycles. Their speed didn't matter however; I missed the downhills — the eventual reward for all that uphill work. The cooling breezes too. Work hard, play hard.

One lazy summer in 2004, Lance Armstrong had been killing it up the Pyrenees of southern France for the (n)th time when I started noticing the ease and precision in which the motorcycle camera crews navigated around the pelotons. Smooth, quick, and also rather noiseless as they dashed down the narrow mountain passes. I was never fond of loud pipes; I preferred listening for vehicles approaching a hindquarter. I knew I’d never fit in with the Harley crowd either, and I wasn’t keen on the Fast 'n Furious sport bike crowd. So then, what were these motorcycles used by the camera crews? I loved their riding position — not hunched over a hot motor behind a tiny windscreen, and no monkey bars either. It exuded athleticism in comfort. Nothing lazy, nothing aggressive, but they diced the twisties with little effort, and that with a pillion cameraman turned backwards. After a few more hours ogling the screen, I finally caught a good glimpse of the make and model. BMW R1150RTs — the world’s most popular touring and law enforcement motorcycle. Made sense. I was completely and utterly sold. But then there’s that life thing…

Maria and I had been dating for just over a year, and by late 2005, it was getting rather serious. We were engaged to be married with a date set for July 2006. There would be no funds for a motorcycle, let alone an expensive one such as the BMW. That’s when I got the idea to commingle my evil plans with the honeymoon. We were headed to Hawai’i, and with the memories of my own parents’ grand outing to Bermuda, wherein they rented a scooter and romantically toured the island for several days, I romanticized the same — except I was contemplating a few more horsepower than the typical 50cc scooter.

In the spring of 2006, I signed up and joyfully completed the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s Basic Rider Course. I wasn’t ready for a full-on 1000cc+ bike, let alone with a passenger, but it meant I could rent a more powerful scooter — something more suitable for those steep and jagged hills along the island interiors. Sadly though, it never happened. As it turned out, there were no larger-displacement scooters available for rent on Oahu or the Big Island. Economics. It was either the 50cc with no extra license requirements, or an expensive and heavy Harley Davidson that I had no business mounting. In a wisp, the dream of motorcycling disappeared. The Magic 8-Ball panel for Motorcycle would not appear for quite some time.

The summer of 2017 found us with a flip house sold and some time on our hands. I had been injured on the job, and music was (and still is) on hiatus. I thought that it had been quite long enough. The price of the motorcycle I wanted surely had come down to a reasonable beginner level. It might be my first and only bike, so I might as well get the one I always wanted. That September, I finally found in Asheville, North Carolina and trailered it home. A 2004 BMW R1150RT with a mere 13K on the odometer. You can refer to the previous post for more on that.

I had been riding locally since then, building up 4,500 miles, taken a couple passengers and so forth. I’ve done most of the maintenance, making sure it was always in top running condition at all times. The tires were new, the oil fresh, and my plans set for a late-May 2018 run — first, to visit family in north Georgia, then on to the famous Tail of the Dragon and Cherohala Skyway rides of western North Carolina. My pannier bags were packed, accessories and tools stowed, tank filled, tire pressures serviced. I was ready! And of course, true to Murphy’s Law, Mother Nature had her say. Rain, and lots of it. I recalled visions from The Spirit of St. Louis film, except James Stewart would eventually clear the clouds and fly in some sunshine. I was facing downpours the entire way, which would be unacceptable. Hoping for a change, I waited 48 hours, but it never came. The deluge lasted four days solid, and, while I was vindicated in scrubbing the trip, I didn’t know when I’d have another shot. Summer was coming. We had a trip planned out west, vacation-bound children would be out of school soon (more traffic), and chances for rough weather would also increase. My plans folded, then something worse happened.

Maria and I were on the last leg of our California Tour. We’d been on the road for eight days, starting and ending in Las Vegas. The last fuel and food stop occurred about two hours outside Los Angeles off I-15 and Cajon Pass. It was a 76 station combined with a Del Taco. That worked for us. Maria jumped out for a restroom break while I filled the tank. We were pressed for time so hit the drive-thru. After we made our order and drove around the building to the pick-up window, we saw the aftermath of a collision that had just occurred just in front of us. A motorcyclist had been hit by a departing SUV. A woman was in tears (the SUV driver) as several other frantically performed CPR on the biker. Just off his side was a mangled Harley Davidson.

I was going to write something like “imagine this scene”, but after a lengthy internal debate, here it is:

The photo does not tell the story, however; it only sets the scene for our experience and emotions. I had just cancelled a motorcycle trip a few weeks prior, now Maria — who was apprehensive about being a passenger to a driver with, frankly, good knowledge and safety practices, but little experience — was anxiously sitting next to me watching a man fighting for his life. His boots came off the ground every time they pumped his chest, and all of those heroic volunteers displayed faces of desperation. They took turns until a local deputy (shown) arrived. What you cannot see is us stuck at the drive-thru of a restaurant, holding a bag of tacos that were becoming a little less crispy by the minute. Awkward. Sort of a Seinfeld moment. We wanted to help — at the very least ascertain if he lives. About a dozen other vehicles were parked at the end of the driveway taking pictures and video. I observed them gawking as if at a free sporting event. Some were even eating, if you can believe it. Maria was not taking this well. We just wanted to leave. A minute or two later, we attempted to escape but was intercepted at the street by one of the heroic-but-frantic CPRists. I was already in the motion of what’s called a "Michigan Left" (a right turn followed shortly by a U-turn), but he impulsively screamed that we must go around. All you can do is just nod and agree. No need to debate that it was already my plan to go around. The tense moment passed and we were back on the road to Vegas. I glanced over at the bag of food, but the starvation had gone. I just stared at the horizon, knowing what just happened — the bigger picture: Maria would probably never get back on the motorcycle with me.

That scene would play for the next several hours. I also began questioning my own motives for continued riding. Did I really *need* a motorcycle? That could have been me out there. Gone forever without a goodbye. How utterly pointless.

We hit Las Vegas in a severe state of melancholy, which was quite a contrast given the surroundings. It wasn’t the first wreck witnessed on the trip — we witnessed a Tesla lose control and destroy its rear against a concrete median wall somewhere between Tahoe and Reno — but for the most part, we had just completed several days of sublime road touring. Death Valley, Sequoia NP, Yosemite, Tahoe, Reno, Napa Valley, San Fran, the ultra-slam Pacific Coast Highway and so much more. It almost came to ruin over the wreck. Worse, we didn’t know if the man lived or died.

Later that evening, after games and other attempted distractions, I started scouring Google for any news. I finally located it and immediately found myself suppressing a vomitous reaction. It was bad enough to learn the motorcyclist didn’t make it. It was infinitely worse that the only “news” outlet to report on it was actually a lawyer’s web advertisement in the vein of “Don’t let this destroy your family…sue them now."

My GOD some people…  Even Saul Goodman would have been offended!

In any regard, details emerged that included the cause of the wreck. The SUV driver, in a classic masking scenario, didn’t see him in the inside lane behind another car as it was turning in to the gas station. She pulled out into the street and it was over. Stupid, stupid excuse, as it almost always is. Now here’s where the aforementioned neural soup comes. Stages of acceptance, grief, self-preservation questions, etc. You go through the lot. Eventually, it comes down to one’s reasoning to hop on a motorcycle in the first place. You knew about the wreck and fatality rates, and you’re keenly aware of all the safety precautions taken. Safety gear, training, good road and collision avoidance practices — some of that already tested. Confidence eventually returns, but then, so does the wreck scene…the death scene.  A decision must be made: get back on that horse, or throw in the towel and sell everything.

A few more weeks flew by. We celebrated Independence Day, and shortly after came the mid-summer anticlimax. The Gulf coast dailies (T-storms) had taken a momentary break, and there wasn’t much happening at work. I looked at my motorcycle — still at the ready in the garage — and decided to make a stand against death. It will defeat you if you let it. Worry, dread, depression, and then the naysayers. Most of which are your own family. Imagine if nobody ever took a risk. I looked at the wreck again and thought it could happen to anyone at any time. I’ve seen it on the road before and it certainly wouldn't be the last time. Sad statistics. As a fact, an average of 100 to 130 people die on U.S. roads every single day. Stay diligent, stay safe and you’ll likely not be part of that number. Maybe our dead motorcyclist should have recognized he was masked behind a car near an intersecting driveway and backed off. Who knows. Second-guessing it all… What’s the point of all that mental labor? I personally know a dozen safe riders who’ve been at it for decades. Some until they were elderly, and we all know at least one person who bought it in a car wreck. I knew I’d regret it forever if I quit now, so the helmet and gloves came on.

First round was a short 38-mile run through the bucolic idylls of central Florida — one of the few areas with hills and curves …and other riders, always waving with two fingers pointing towards the road. Brooksville is perhaps Florida’s most popular riding area because of it. I eventually returned home having beaten the Reaper on two levels, and that felt good. I soon began to wonder if I really could make the planned mountain ride. My longest trip to date was no more than 177 miles total. What about fatigue? I was usually bushed after a 100-miler. I hadn’t ridden in all conditions yet, either. No crazy grooved concrete or interstates under construction with uneven lanes. No loose gravel other than a parking lot, and no wet surfaces at all, let alone rain — let alone a full downpour! Was I insane to risk experiencing it all on a long-distance solo ride? I started to wonder …doubt, really. There would be some night riding too on the way back. The Great Atlanta and its famous traffic stood between me and my goal …twice. Notorious tailgaters and cutoffers, and I knew them well from 25 years’ living near the city. To my experience, outside of Los Angeles, it doesn’t get much worse.

A couple days later, I took another ride. 76 miles. This one ended by being caught in my first rain, and it was the full-on, dreaded Florida summer downpour. I reduced speed, kept the bike upright, and avoided standing water as best as I could. No problem! Okay, the RT’s windshield could have been a couple inches taller and the deluge quickly soaked me, but overall, not bad. In fact, I rather enjoyed the cooling effect afterwards. Aircon! That took care of one trip anxiety, but I still hoped for a decent weather window. I looked at the calendar and at the forecast. The following week would work perfectly. Just a few days for prep, but I was ready. Five days to ride up and return. It was time.

The Ride

The alarm went off at 0430 that next Monday. My plan was to hit the road at first light. No sense tempting wildlife or some other hazard by leaving too early. My route took me through state forests in the first hour, so that was the consideration. When I first took possession of the bike, I swapped the primary halogen headlamp for a high-output LED — No burnout anxieties, and it was considerably brighter. It wasn’t necessary to depart too early, though; no major cities to navigate until Atlanta. I kissed Maria (not goodbye!) and set off.

First stop was actually a few minutes later in Homosassa, off US19. Tank top-off, which means six gallons full, plus reserve. I’d been averaging about 200 miles per tank, so that should put me somewhere north of Valdosta, GA, I thought. Around 2.5 hours ticked and I was hitting the McDonald’s in Adel, GA. 200 miles. My longest ride, and it was merely a first leg! Due to riding position, my knees were just to the point of complaint. I decided that the first break would be a 30-minute rest. The air conditioning was welcome, and so was the ultra-light meal. A $1 burrito and a small cup of water. Traveling in style! Well, of course you don’t want to consume too much on a ride for obvious reasons. That break was enough to quell and cool. I zipped up, crossed the street and filled up. 4.5 gallons. Now, the bike’s literature from 2004 gave an estimated 45 MPG HWY. I assumed it would not be the case for me. The bike displayed a mere 18K on the odometer, but it was 14 years old. And yet, I averaged just under the published figure 44.5mpg. Nice. I won’t mention average velocity, though. You can do the math. I didn’t go overboard, but I kept such a pace as to minimize vehicles sneaking up on my rear.

It’s better to keep potential issues behind you.

It was around 0900 when I departed Adel. Second leg. This time, fatigue crept in a little quicker. I was passing through Macon when it hit. Left knee was screaming. Seat frying. Neck developing a pinch due to buffeting winds. That happens when you’re following traffic, especially tractor trailers. It was getting towards the midday and I needed to make time so as not to be caught in Atlanta during rush hour. In that city, it starts just after 2pm and runs until after 8pm. The prospects of stop-and-go traffic in a major city were …smelly. My third stop finally came a little over two hours at the Tanger Outlet south of Atlanta in Locust Grove. 170 miles. I had been lucky, but the traffic was steadily increasing and inconsiderate. It was getting close to noon and I still had some riding to do.

There would be no sitting break in the air conditioning. It was a standing ten minutes consuming half a soda for caffeine and sugar. Splash ‘n dash. 3.8 gallons (hey, this is a CHEAP trip!) and back on the road. Decision time: Take I-675 to go around town to the east, or bisect it for a run up GA400. I knew the Perimeter of I-285 as a meat grinder, so I opted to just get on with it and claim downtown Atlanta by motorcycle. BIG mistake. Somewhere just north of the airport it all came to a screeching halt. Google Maps bled red to the top of my phone (mounted to dash), and I was stuck in it for the next 20 minutes.

Up ahead were two wrecks in the middle of the interstate. It was bumper to bumper tight, and I was riding the clutch in the leftmost normal lane. I stared at the HOV lane for a couple miles beforehand, but you see, the signage governing it created ambiguity. It only states vehicles with 2+ occupants are allowed. Now, I had read many years ago that motorcycles, buses and other special vehicles were also allowed, but no sign actually displayed that. The fines were high for violations too. Cameras everywhere. It just wasn’t worth it. To add, I was passed by another bike to my right. No HOV then. Oh well, I slogged on. Ten more minutes slogging went by and finally another motorcycle flew by my left — in the HOV lane. Aha! Yeah, I took it. And then it didn’t matter because we were approaching the wreck and everyone shifted lanes anyway. I guess this is allowed under those circumstances. Didn’t matter, the officer looked straight at me without ado when I passed him. It was in the I-75/85 tunnel downtown. Traffic immediately thinned and accelerated. The sound was awesome. My bike cooled (it had been getting warm in the drudgery) and I made for the GA400 exit. It was 1:30 and I was running late. Fatigue came quick. I had logged over 420 miles so far. Definitely riding the unknown.

The next 40 minutes saw the city disappear into rural highway. Rolling hills and curves. The ride became entertaining at last. I made the final turn towards my parents’ home in near Gainesville via GA136. I was looking forward to those curves, wondering how they would feel on a motorcycle. I had wondered for 30 years when I first thought about buying one (another story there). I was not disappointed. The curves came fast after the long downhill towards Turtle Creek Bridge. I had already been through Hell’s Gamut so this was my reward. I twisted the throttle and shot toward Wilkie Bridge. The curves were no match. But then…

Ah man, a slow car! Now, here I am, a full day’s ride from central Florida and I’m trapped behind ‘The Enemy’. Thank God for an empty passing lane just after the bridge. Freedom! Only, just like that, I was at the entrance of my old subdivision and coasting down a hill. 478 miles in just over eight hours.

No Iron Ass certificate, but not bad.

My family greeted me at the door, jubilant that I made it. They were not for my mode of transportation, you see. God bless our mothers' anxieties. My riding togs were hot. Not too sweaty, but weathered. The boots on the other hand were blistering. A stinger in the left heel complimented the knee pain. Geez, was this worth it? Time would tell. I plopped down on the couch and talked the night way with family and some iced tea. Much to my surprise, all fatigue dissipated within about 20 minutes. I wasn’t sure if it was shock or just that it wasn’t quite as bad as I envisioned. The latter proved to be true. I’d have the next day for R&R then it was up to the mountains. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much R&R the next day.

As it goes in life, you ultimately give back what was given. My parents’ duties and generosities were paid in full so many years ago in my childhood. As my siblings have done so for decades since they live close by, I took the liberty of helping my parents while I was available and put some plumbing skills to work. Of the three bathrooms in the residence, only one was functional. Anyone with trade skills knows how these matters go. What seemed an easy project turned into a three-day affair (with a riding break in between), but along with a brother’s assistance, I’m happy to report that my parents are no longer inhabiting an awkward space. But let’s not forget what happened in the meantime.

The Real Ride

Daybreak Wednesday morning arrived as I loaded the bike, checked fluids, pressures and linkages, etc., while the folks watched. They were amazed with my new motorcycling skills since the last time they saw it I was deathly afraid while re-trailering it for the trip home to Florida (My parents were a natural stopover from Asheville). I didn’t know if I was returning later that day or staying in the mountains. It depended solely on what time I arrived at Robbinsville, NC. That was the east end of the Cherohala Skyway. My plan was to visit the old Taylor cemetery just west of Murphy, then scoot to Tellico Plains, TN. This meant multiple country back roads heading mostly due north. I hugged my parents, said my goodbyes and set off towards Murrayville.

The first leg skirted Dahlonega’s east quadrant; the "new" wine country now monikered as the Dahlonega Plateau just north of Garland. We just used to call it Frogtown or simply "the copper mines." Those were the prevalent features for the area long ago. I have a gripping story about spelunking those mines back in the ‘80s. The recent trials of those trapped boys in Thailand were a reminder. Before you ask, no, we weren’t trapped — not for very long, anyway — but it was quite the underground adventure. We were young and stupid. More on that later, perhaps.

Frogtown was my first real test for sharp twists and steeper hills. Before this, the steepest grade challenged was a parking garage ramp in Tampa. I was already having fun, but quickly reminded of the treachery from decreasing-radius curves. Sneaky bastards, but the Bimmer dispatched them without ado. I just made sure I looked through the curves and didn’t fool around with any target fixation. Following cars became welcome when they obviously knew the roads well and actually increased their speeds for me. Wait — conscientious drivers?  What a concept! I developed a good sense for what I could handle, or if I was being lazy at the helm. Not all cars and trucks are slowpokes. There were a few that passed me!

I emerged near the intersection known as Turner’s Corner at US19/GA9 and US129. There wasn’t any traffic so I sat there for a moment to let my knees rest. The next leg turned north on US129 towards Neel’s Gap. I’d been through there innumerable times in a car. This would be an entirely new experience. The road climbed from 1,500ft to just over 3,000 in just a few miles. There were curves ‘o plenty and one complete 180° switchback. A few cars trundled along with me, and I wondered if my skill level meant I’d likely be overtaken, but that wasn’t the case. The ascent included multiple passing lane sections, and that meant I could dice it up as needed. Pure joy. I finally captured what this type of motorcycling is all about — why it is so highly regarded. It reminded me of downhill skiing. You parse the moguls, looking beyond and creating your line, thanking the heavens for my motorcycle selection.

Sport touring. This was it!

The summer winds cooled at the Gap as I shot down towards Blairsville and Nottely Lake — one of those timeless townships that never seem to expand but remain vibrant and occasionally refreshed. I had entered ancestral lands. Some of my paternal grandparents were from here. At one time we owned some land on the lake and picnicked there for several summers.  Familiar grounds. Good times. I made for the western Murphy outskirts where the old cemetery is located. Bell Hill Baptist Church off US74/64, and I arrived around 0800. Short break to look around, pay respects to my Taylor GG and GGG grandparents and contemplate the next leg. I was ready for a real break, and breakfast was overdue.

I hadn’t given the two roads involved enough consideration. Highway 294 and TN68 were formidable in their own right, but I need to back up. As I awaited the left turn onto 294, a motorcycle approached from the other direction, signaling to take 294 as well. It was a newer BMW K1600-something with a pillion rider. They were ATGATT (All the gear, all the time) folks apparently, same as me, and broke etiquette by waving as they turned. With a nod, I fed into 294 just behind them. I was no longer alone, and I had a leader in strange territory. I surmised that the driver must be experienced to have such a nice ride, and he had a passenger, so there won’t be any pressure to exhibit aggressiveness. Perfect. Their pace was actually a tad slower than expected, but diligent as we carved the narrow valley road together. I kept a bit of a distance so they wouldn’t feel any goading from me as well. Sadly though, it reminded me of Maria’s decision to stay behind. That could have been us, experiencing all of this countryside together, but it was for the best. In retrospect, she would have hated it. Boats (ships!) and roller coasters disagree with her, so I could imagine what this would do. There’s cruising, then touring, then there’s what I was attempting — somewhere in between touring and sport — so it was probably best she stayed home this round.

Highway 294 was closing towards TN68 when the GPS (Google Maps) abruptly directed me away to the right, and this was the first time I ever cursed the program. Runion Road was narrow, unmarked, and pocked with repaired potholes. What happened? Apparently, Maps is programed for fastest/shortest route, and felt my time would be best served by taking a shortcut. Well, I was on an adventure after all. The street was done in a couple minutes and proved out at TN68, a few miles further north than I would have been. Thing is, I lost my riding companions and wondered where they went. The road I was about to encounter might be the El Dorado of motorcycling, but honestly, every road in Appalachia is a thrill to a Florida rider, and I was still buzzing from the stretch over Neel’s Gap. Regardless, I turned north on 68 and headed off to Tellico Plains — the gateway to the Cherohala Skyway.

Thirty minutes through serene farmscapes, twists and lifts, and I wheeled into Tellico, elevation 870ft. Not much going on there. A couple convenience stores and restaurants… and Amish wagons on the streets. I was (F)amished after topping the tank. A few minutes later, as I was decloaking for breakfast, the K-bike entered the parking lot and backed in to the space next to me. It was an older couple, all smiles to see me too.

“How’d you get here so fast?”

I blamed the GPS, but let them know it gave me at least a 10-miute advantage. They showed me their paper tourist-biking map and laughed. All’s well that ends well. We talked for several minutes, traded a few stories and made for the fast-food biscuit hell that is a Hardees. They rode down from Virginia and had been taking a leisurely pace in a circumference around their base at the casino in Cherokee. Brilliant plan as far as I was concerned (Listen, Maria!) and they were having a blast. Could have been a commercial for BMW, as their modus fit the bike so perfectly.

Leave Your Problems Behind

It was getting towards 1100 by the time I got out of there. Fully fueled, I bid adieu to my new friends. They knew I would be faster in the twists and didn’t want to hold me up. I had few expectations. Dangerous curves and mountains were ahead. I’d read way too many accounts of motorcycle wrecks too, as well watching a few helmet cam videos from those who lost control. I considered that I might encounter more than a few extreme street fighters — the rocket bikes with younger, fearless imbeciles. There would be the Harley crowd too. Cruisers, drinkers, tokers …slower bikes constantly testing their footpegs. But I was a complete novice, alone against the mighty Cherohala. Let’s get on with it.

I won’t go too much into the trail itself. This is well-documented and searchable online. Suffice to say, the meandering ascension along a wide riverbed then up towards the Smokies was as captivatingly enjoyable as any leg of my trip. Unceasing carves and transected apexes. I see what they mean by nirvana (the Buddist concept, not the band). And then the Hardees and Diet Coke hit…

Emergency stop! This would come at a scenic outlook facing south about 1800ft up. While I was suiting back up, some Hawgs brapped into the overlook’s parking lot. Cordial, then the *beverages broke out. I gave the flask holder a polite decline as I swung a leg over the RT. I didn’t need to be anywhere near that group of potential statistics on the way up. A horn blasted from the road. It was my couple from Highway 294. I would be a couple minutes behind them. No worries. It was best for me to be alone, I thought. Nobody to see any mistakes unless they found me in the woods. If I was conscious, I could make up any excuse for the wreck. If I was dead, what would I care? I was not to be alone, however.

Just before I exited the lot, a passenger car crawled by. Crap! I was behind a slowpoke. Passing zones were ultra-rare too. This was awful — 15-20mph tops in the curves. Then it got worse. The first passing zone materialized and there was no opposite traffic. I dropped a gear and laid into the throttle. The car hit the gas too, matching me all way up to a dangerous speed before I ran out of zone. Unbelievable! Folks, to me this is tantamount to attempted homicide. I was placed into a dangerous situation by an obvious road gamer. What was their motivation? I did nothing to them. It was viciously evil.

I laid back. Again, the car dropped 15mph in the curves. A few more miles went this way. No passing zones. Even if there was one, who’s to say they wouldn’t harass me again? Cherohala was being ruined. A checked the rearviews and nobody caught up to us yet, so there was that. I longed for a witness, but not if it was the Whiskey Ironclads, although there was a split-second daydream of deviance. My guess was that Harley crowd was likely armed and wouldn’t tolerate a road gamer. Just deserves, but the drama wasn’t needed.

Another passing zone came up and I inched forward. Opposite traffic blocked, but the car again sped up. I was screwed, then another zone came up within a mile and I caught the car off-guard. Dropped to 4^th and laid on it. The RT’s large-displacement twin summoned every ounce of torque as again the car hit its accelerator. 40, 50, 60…70… I finally made it by as the zone collapsed. 75... This was nuts! I couldn’t hit the brakes too hard or I’d have the car up my rear, but I’d definitely lose them in the corners. Jesus — wild west and no sheriff. The first curve was thankfully an increasing radius variety. I nailed the apex and laid into the throttle. Speed limit was 55 but the car could not manage that in the curves. I could at least go as fast as I dared. Nothing insane as before, but diligent. I never wanted to see that car again, and I started second-guessing my decision to eschew a helmet cam.

A few miles ticked by and the elevation crept past 4,000ft. I was nearing the top of the pass and there were scenic overlooks at regular intervals along both sides of the road. Probably nice I thought, but then there’s that car. No, I wasn’t stopping again. I did however pass my BMW couple at the top. The horn blast was returned with a wave as I sped past. I was finally alone and in the clear for the ride down to Robbinsville, NC.

I didn’t think much of Car #2 when I came up on it. It was a light service van, in fact. Good reason to be slow. Its cargo area was likely full, and it was top-heavy with metal ladders and such. I’d make quick work of him on the next zone. Problem was that there wasn’t one for miles (sigh). At least he wasn’t glacial in the corners. A passing zone finally arrived a couple thousand feet below. I checked for traffic, signaled, and dropped gears. Would you believe the guy also hit the gas? Unreal! Several expletives later, he was behind me. I had escaped once again, but I was asking: What is it with these people? Are they dealing with asshole motorcyclists every day and want revenge? Any rider will do? If you know your Princess Bride lore, this was iocaine powder, and I’d bet my life on it. The rest of the descent into Robbinsville was uneventful, thankfully. It might have been blissful if not for my shot nerves. I had been assaulted, twice, and I still had some riding yet.

I dropped in to a fast food parking lot and phoned home. The plan’s contingency was that I might come home if I’d had enough and it was early. I thought about heading north to Deal’s Gap and the famous Tail of the Dragon, but I remembered that it was even more crowded than Cherohala. I’d heard the word “circus” bandied about too. There were even photographers such as Killboy.com lining the hillsides that would sell you a nice memento. Was it really necessary? More bikes, and more cars? Judging by the sheer number of photos taken that day, the answer was clear.

The small hand sat near 1pm when my sister picked up. I informed her that I’d be home in time for supper. The Dragon could wait for another trip. Indeed, I had enough curves and hills for the day. Besides, I still had about three hours riding through more hills and curves just to get home. The tank had plenty of fuel, so I set off without a break. No need. Wasn’t thirsty, wasn’t hungry, wasn’t fatigued — just rattled.

The leg down US129 from Robbinsville to Topton, NC was unremarkable, save for additional idyllic countryside. Those views never get old when you’ve migrated to Flatlandia..er…Florida. Just east of Andrews, the highway expands to four lanes, creating a lovely pass through the long Valley River valley (I’m still looking for the name of the actual valley). The mountain views were tremendous, lushly green and crisp, with heavy clouds dancing around the tops. One has the luxury of enjoying them since the highway is devoid of sharp curves, flat, sparse with traffic, and generally wide open. I daydreamed of what a ride might be like passing through Carson National Forest in northern New Mexico, as Maria and I did in a car last year. Just fantastic.

A quick splash-n-dash at the intersection of US74/64 and US19 then it was the last leg back down to Murrayville, GA through freshly-familiar roads. First Ivy Log, then Blairsville, then on to Neel’s Gap, and this time, the Gap proved even better. Sure there was traffic, but those passing lanes make all the difference. I screamed by Vogel State Park and up the ridge paralleling Blood Mountain. Moguls skiing at its absolute best, and I had become symbiont with my machine. I knew the apexes, I could pass skillfully, I didn’t push it through rough pavements, my shiftwork smooth (I still have to work at this), and braking well-timed. Problem was, it was over all too quickly. Before I knew it, I was down the mountain, passing Turner’s Corner and blowing through Frogtown..er..Garland. Zac Brown’s distillery was in the rearview and so were the vineyards. Curves and hills…a never-ending coaster ride. Fun, but there is an endpoint and I had reached it — at least for that day. 286 miles and home by 4pm. Not bad at all, but I was already thinking about the ride back to Florida. Interstates… Atlanta… “The Road”. And then came the best distraction ever.

Dear old Dad and my brother-in-law John had cooked me up a champions dinner! Not sure what I did exactly to deserve it — maybe simply survive?­ — but I wasn’t complaining. Best evarrr…

We talked about the ride. They were curious, of course. Familiar lands suddenly become alien when traversed differently. Would I do it again? Absolutely, but no time soon. I’d also question riding the bike up from Florida in the first place. Probably better trailered? Jury’s still out on that. We also talked about the forthcoming ride. There was no perfect way to depart Friday morning and avoid Atlanta’s rush hour. I’d have to leave early. Ass-early. As in 0400 early. That would put me south of the Big Peach by the time the traffic hit, running the opposite direction of it. Not the best plan, but there was no other way. Two hours running in the dark and in one of the country’s busiest cities. I decided to eschew downtown this time, opting for the Meat Grinder Perimeter to I-675.

Thursday passed with additional plumbing exercises and chillaxing. Everything was tidied before the 8pm bedtime came. 0230 was reveille and that meant caffeine would be required. I was apparently adrenalined and awoke on my own with ten minutes to spare. My parents were up shortly afterward while I prepped for the long ride home. They were worried, of course. Atlanta was bad enough, but adding darkness might get me Baker Acted. Naturally, other folks ride at these times in similar circumstances with regularity. It’s no big deal to the experienced rider. Even with my recently ticked checkboxes, I remained apprehensive towards the whole matter of dark interstates. Potholes and debris were out there waiting to find someone’s rims.
I prayed a little that morning.

And Back…

By Florida comparisons, the air was cool and crisp that morning, and no rain forecasted. As my folks stood close by (they were still curious as to the whole business of my preparation), I packed the panniers and performed a walk-around, once again checking fluids and pressures. The motor oil level indicator window had dropped from just below the top line to about 70%. That was absolutely fine for the return trip. I donned my helmet, set up the GPS (although I knew exactly where I was going, it was more to see who’s calling or for gas station info), tugged on my gauntlets and stretched the worn kangaroo leather over my fingers, then took my place. The bike’s ignition faithfully fired, I gave my thanks and said my goodbyes, then off I went. 460-ish miles to go on this route.

Cruising through Gainesville, GA in the middle of the night meant if I encountered any other vehicles, it’d likely be of the law enforcement variety. Both the county and the city agencies are notoriously curious profilers. It’s the Bible Belt, you see; nothing good happens after midnight, and nobody usually has any business being outside until the roosters crow. Gainesville, being the world’s poultry capital, yes, there are roosters. I kept it under the speed limit through town, but never passed another vehicle. The well-lit RaceTrac at I-985 and US129 looked like a good place to top off the tank before the main event happened. I could make it well below Macon from there. Just over two gallons was all it needed. Traffic was still very light to non-existent. It would be a great while before my feet touched the ground again, and Atlanta was 45 minutes away, if that.

There’s something quite refreshing about riding at night. Your senses are further heightened and the cooler winds are invigorating. I ignited the halogen auxiliary lamps to make the “triangle of light” others speak fondly of for collision aversion. I wanted every advantage I could get in that regard, but if anything, those lights provided additional clarity just in front of the bike. I could see exactly what killed me if I ran over something. My father later commented that I was lit up like a Christmas tree, but I’m not sure if that’s advantageous or a distraction. Well-lit is good enough for me. I actually see better with the motorcycle’s lights than I do with my wife’s modern sedan! Anyway, Atlanta was upon me, or I upon it, and I quickly discovered there were innumerable others that also believed the best time to skewer The Peach was well before sunrise. The traffic built as I merged from I-985 to I-85, and compounded again when I approached the Perimeter — the not-so-precious ring.

Invariably, major cities colloquially name their major interstate intersections “Spaghetti Junction.” Atlanta cooked up the Tom Moreland Interchange in the mid-1980s, and it’s massive. I would be taking the southbound exit for I-285. It’s a high right-exit to left-overpass bit of concrete with an alarming amount of tire marks on the side barrier walls. I was passing a lumbering semi on its right when my heart stopped. There it was, just a few dozen feet ahead — an unavoidable 2ft-diameter pothole, and there was no way for me to avoid it. SHIT! I braced, then felt absolutely nothing as I glided over it. Huh? What just happened? Never mind that, I thought, our lanes were merging and I had a tractor trailer just to my left.

Now, I was awake.

I still don’t know what happened on that overpass. I should have felt something. Was it a descending lip on the far side? Optical illusion? A heartless visual prank? It doesn’t matter now, but it does give ammunition in the night riding debate. Debris and other road hazards are indeed a major concern in those circumstances. The rest of the perimeter was a blur. I barely recall exiting for I-675 heading south to eventually merge with I-75 — a freeway I’ve traveled my entire life between Florida and Georgia, suffice to add its north terminus in Michigan, and its southern end in Miami (Hialeah, actually). The fog of a near-death experience (hey, that’s how it felt!) lifted just north of McDonough/Flippen exits.

Not again!

Traffic was already dense by 0500 and compounded from road construction. It would be stop-and-go for at least five miles, I thought. It lasted a full 20 minutes, and it wasn’t stopping and going the entire time either. It was more like stopping and loosely crawling for several moments at the perfectly awkward speed where balance becomes an issue. Feet down, feet up. Oscillating left and right due to odd inclinations. Maddening to say the least, but we finally made it past the actual worksite, and it was as if an Olympic race starter shot his pistol. Except, here, I had the advantage.

Perhaps it was a disguised blessing in having my knees stretched during the stoppage, but that wouldn’t happen again for some time. Macon was the next major waypoint, or rather, the bypass of it on I-475. Then it was south as far as I felt prudent with available fuel. Dawn finally broke passing Macon, and I was no longer worried about road hazards. At least, considerably less so.  

About an hour later, maybe less — can’t remember — I started looking at the fuel gauge. Two bars remained on its LCD. I may have been pushing it, but Cordele was just ahead. What do you know? It was exactly 200 miles too. Fuel consumption was 4.5 gallons. No variation from the ride up. Loved it. The traffic didn’t kill it, apparently. My old pal Fatigue, however, was knocking on the front door. It was either a break or increase the risk of hitting a storm along the Gulf coast. It was July, after all.

The dailies aren’t called that without reason! Fatigue had the upper hand though. The McDonald’s was open just up the street and I needed the break. 30 minutes. Sausage burrito and a small water. Some Facebook updates too. I gave Maria a wake-up call. She was beyond happy that I would be home soon.

It was around 0730 when I set off again. 260 miles to go and the last major concern was the ever-present gauntlet of revenue-hungry southern Georgia county sheriff departments. True, I preferred traffic to my rear, but I had so far witnessed (escaped!) no less than three citation stops picked from vehicles to my flanks. Ah, how quickly the RT decelerates when off the throttle. Maybe the rozzers preferred to hit cars and SUVS over motorcycles, or maybe bikes are harder to read, or perhaps they appreciated that I was a consciously-equipped "clean" rider. I’ve no idea, but I could have been yanked on any one of those occasions. Nothing egregious, mind you, but enough to justify a lecture and a token fine.

The road was filled with traffic now. Half of it was semi rigs and their whiplashing aerodynamics. My neck was taking a beating even with the windshield fully extended (I need to solicit Parabellum about this). In the distance, I finally spotted another bike. Only one had passed me the entire day …on my side of the road, anyway. As I drew closer, I started chuckling. What are the odds of linking up with another 1150RT? But it happened. Some guy in a high-viz jacket was scooting along in his stickered-up red RT, lumbering along in the slow-lane behind the trucks. I drew alongside in the middle lane and gave a curt right-handed wave (the manual cruise control had been set). I must have spooked him because he jerked his helmet around in such a manner to indicate astonishment. Another RT!

The rider made a slow circle around me to check the bike out. A little unnerving, actually. I had no idea his intentions. Then he sort of settled in behind me, occupying the other half of the lane. Standard Operating Procedure for group riding, I guessed. Make yourselves appear larger to traffic. I supposed I’d be on point for a while, so I took the speed back up to “diligent” and set about the task of creating safe passing (and being blown-by) spaces. After about 20 minutes he took over. We continued this all the way from Tifton to just north of Gainesville. Not sure of that was his destination, but he faded back about ten miles north of town. I finally lost sight of him as the first exits came into view. My exit was the last one, going home the same way I came—FL121 through Williston. Florida peanut country.

As I approached US19 around 1100, the sky darkened. I looked off to the south and the entire southeastern quadrant was a deep blue, reminiscent of the Atlantic towards the Bahamas.

This can’t be good.

It wasn’t. The first drops hit me several miles north of Inglis. It was still sunny overhead, but the rain — the heavy stuff — was just about to drop. The road was starting to get on the damp side too. I could race it, but not too fast. I wasted no time and took no quarter with traffic, which was light, gods-be-praised. It was a risk, I knew — rain — but I was winning the race. The threat dissipated by the time I hit Crystal River. It felt like a victory lap by this point — the ten or so miles home. No excitement there, just the normal, everyday touristas running along the coastal towns off US19. It was deathly hot and traffic lights then became The Enemy.

I pulled into our driveway at 1145. With stops, it was a 460-miler in 7.75 hours. For a motorcycle trip, I understand that’s a respectable pace. Exhaustion and resultant fatigue had a firm grip on me, and after calls to The Relevant Concerned, I popped a beverage. Hard earned perhaps, but it had no effect beyond quenching a simple thirst. I placed no value on it because in the grand scheme of things, my best reward was the satisfaction of beating Death. By that I mean triumphing over his mental influence. I was challenged and I prevailed. At least, this time.

EPILOGUE

The magnesium cylinder heads ticked as they cooled. It was time to wheel the moto into the garage. I looked back after laying it to the side stand. 14 years old and not one complaint. It ferried me the distance and brought me safely home. Sure, it wasn’t the longest trip anyone’s ever taken — far from it — but it was my trip, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the first and maybe last motorcycle I’ll own.

(fingers crossed)

The following two weeks included daily rains — thunderstorm downpours, mostly. I had rested and was anxious to get back in the saddle. Sure, I made the big trip, and Florida riding simply cannot compare, but would I enjoy riding at all now that the big trip was over? That test came in the third week towards the end. The skies finally cleared for a few hours and I took advantage. Just a 37 mile run through Farmlandia. The favored sensations returned as I diced a few curves at speed. My confidence had grown as much as my respect for safety. I am “experienced” now, although it doesn’t feel like it. Maybe at 20,000 miles. We’ll see. Some say you need to hit the pavement once or twice to be experienced. Not sure if that’s a plausible benchmark, so I’ll opt for inexperience.

The success of that ride also reopened Maria’s door. She has reconsidered and I remain hopeful, although I understand it may not be any time soon. Again, we’ll see. True liberations take time.

UPDATE***
Having traversed the Tom Moreland Interchange once again last week - yes, major pothole - still there and we hit it with a car, which shuttered quite a bit on impact. I am still somewhat confused as to why I felt nothing on a motorcycle. For some, there's a simple scientific explanation. For others, well...