1. Champing at the Bit

I like Prozac. Its eases obsession and compulsion. I ran out about five years ago, however, and have had to rely on other methods, like "practicing acceptance", since. I was trying to roll with the punches even when it looked like our planned road trip might be, at the very least, postponed till next month, October. I near froze in the North Carolina hills one August, but it could be done, heck, I've been double-bagged in long johns, before.

It appears that things have come together, though. A hurricane has drawn off any rain for the first part of our journey and further maintenance on the big yella bike can wait till my return.
This is the bike I'll ride. She's on loan from one of the finest men in Flour Bluff, Texas.



Is she a beauty? She's a Honda Valkyrie Interstate, the same motorcycle as my big yella bike, but tricked out with a batwing fairing, and hard luggage, a "cruiser for touring" motorcycle.
I sometimes refer to the Interstate as an "old guy Valkyrie" and I've already received a razzing, by phone, from a fellow rider in Virginia who knows I'll be turning up on this baby. Chickens coming home to roost, I guess.

Jill elected to ride her trusty (and fast) Honda Magna, this trip. Once she's hung her saddlebags and Nelson-Rigg sissy bar bag on her, this workhorse is capable of carrying nearly everything we'd need for camping.



We're gassed and shined up and I'm ready to be off on another big adventure with the luckiest woman in Flour Bluff.
I don't own a cell phone or laptop; so don't expect hourly ride reports.

This link will show the route to our destination.




We'll take a direct route back with a stop in Oberlin, LA.
ETA in Corpus Christi: Sept. 26 (2007).

I have to go find my good underwear, now. The adventure begins below.

2. Found Friends on the Super Slab

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Friday, the first day of our big adventure, showed up in tune and on time and as fine a day as a Chamber of Commerce photographer could ask for. Jill had been in the war room a few nights prior and had charted us a promising route.


Our first stop is a cool little resort near Washington on the Brazos, site of the signing of our Declaration of Independence, where a small annual motorcycle event is held. By the time we arrive, the sound man has set up for the band, “The Posse”, and is deejaying some rocking Cajun and Zydeco music and getting everyone in the mood for fun. Many of us tent camp on grounds a country club greens keeper would be proud to sign his name to.

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On Saturday, there is a bike show with a good variety of motorcycles. With the exception of scooters and antiques, all the bikes in the show must be ridden in the poker run, even if that means taking them off the trailer.



The poker run was138 picturesque miles, much of it through the Sam Houston National Forest. Finer than the Natchez Trace for sheer beauty, the trees grow close to the two-lane that runs through them.
One of the stops is a diner we like.



Later, I dust off the Valkyrie Interstate for the show where she takes second to a Harley dresser with an eye-catching ostrich skin seat. In my qualified opinion, the Valkyrie was the better-looking bike, but it’s all in fun.



That eve, we swim, hot tub, eat BBQ and stargaze at a perfectly clear black sky.
Sunday morning, huge motor coaches carry last night’s bikers off as Jill and I strike camp. While we’ve seen friends and met a couple of real riders from San Antonio and Houston, there seems to be more swingers and Dallas status junkies, each year. We don’t relate.



We turn our wheels north, traveling through horse and cattle country. We see many motorcycles and antique cars on the road, some returning from the big rally at Hot Springs, Arkansas, our next destination.

Near Jefferson, the bike developed that “low front tire” feel, and sure enough, the front tire is low. I aired it back up with my handy air pump and searched for a nail to no avail. Naturally, the problem is a cracked valve stem and no amount of Ride-On, Fix-a-Flat or duct tape is going to un-crack it. We limped her in to Texarkana and holed up in Motel 6 to take stock.



Motorcycle shops don’t open on Sunday or Monday, but Monday morn Jill makes contact with Dwight, who just happened to be next to the phone in his shop, which is closed for the day. Hearing our tale he offers help so we prepare to backtrack 20 miles to New Boston, TX.

As I exited our room to uncover the bike I startled Brandie who was on her way to the office with her albino friend, Boudreaux, to show off her fancy hat. Yes, things were looking up. She told us the ferret had been rescued from crack heads who had mistreated him to the point that he was not expected to survive. She took him in and he’s not just surviving, but thriving. Brandie rides a Harley, down in Mississippi, when she’s not in the cab of the truck with her husband. Here she is in her fancy hat, with Boudreaux. Meeting interesting and unusual people, like Brandie, is a part of travel that I surely enjoy. We wished her well and headed for New Boston.



Dwight’s shop has Harley –Davidsons in it, you know, the kind of bike whose valve stems won’t fit a Honda Valkyrie.
In his personal truck, we visited three places in his town and end up with a handful of valve stems. One from a tractor works.



The man balanced the tire for me and while I test rode the bike, Jill attempted to pay him for the effort he’s made on our behalf on his day off. He refused payment, telling me to, “pass it on” and help some other person down the road.
He’s what we used to call a “good neighbor”, when that meant something.


The adventure continues:

3. Camping Out At Motel Three

We spent the night in Texarkana at a Motel 6. The trend is set for the rest of the ride. It’s okay, though, as this is a “visiting” trip and a sight seeing excursion only in the larger sense.

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Even with the delay caused by the broken valve stem and the hunt for a new one we hadn’t burned up too much daylight, so we pushed on into Arkansas. Our first planned stop is to meet my Internet friend, Julie, in Hot Springs National Park. I’d had many pleasant exchanges with her on the Net and was looking forward to a face-to-face meeting. I was certainly not disappointed. We had a good coffee break with her but soon it was time to get in the wind on highway 7.


The ride up SH 7 was fabulous, a great road with little traffic and awesome scenery.
After a full and rewarding day we decide to stop in Russellville. The town bustles. Our eyes are cast about for a motel near the highway, not a compound, but one with a clear view of the motorcycles. Bikes parked "first floor, at the end" and just outside the window would be most desirable.

AT the Economy Inn we are met by the smiling face of Rashid. Rashid speaks English pretty well and tells us that motorcyclists get the corporate discount at his place, which is not, he informs us, part of a chain. It seems that bikers are quiet and don’t tear up the rooms. Who’d a-thunk it? We’re the good ones!
Supper is excellent at the Dixie Restaurant where Jill resists the urge to flirt with the handsome waiter. I find resisting urges counter productive to a good time and have the paper to prove it, but she’s a little more reserved than I. After, we relax and ready ourselves for another day in the saddle.



Continuing up winding SH 7, it takes us three hours to make the 85 miles to Harrison where we head west to ride along the Boston Mountains. At a roadside park, we learned that the Ozark “mountains” are fairly uniform in height. Originally a plateau that has been eroded by the rivers, we were actually riding the Ozark valleys.



I also learned that controlled logging of the forest keeps it healthy, makes forest fires less likely and promotes the re-introduction of plants native to the area. That was welcome information, as I had seen many logging trucks and recalled old photos of the Appalachians, denuded by clear-cutting of timber.



In the foothills, we ate at "Joy’s" in the small town of Imboden, where the waitress is from the big city of Dallas. The owner said, he too, is a Texan, from Plano. Judging from his 'twang' I suspect he may have been from somewhere in the Middle East, before that, though.

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Soon after, we stopped for gasoline and Gatorade in tiny McDougal where rice, sorghum, hay and soybeans fuel the local economy. The attendant and I chat and find commonality in our fondness for Stone Mountain, Georgia.
The land flattens out in the plains of the Mississippi River. Cotton fields, defoliated and ready to harvest, look like they'd been dusted with snow that refuses to melt in 87° heat.
We stop to check our route in Gideon, Missouri. Having ridden her own motorcycle over so many miles, Jill is a hit with the ladies who work the store.



Now, a trip just ain’t a trip without, at least, one wrong turn and at least one happened when we left Gideon. While photographing an isolated stretch of blacktop I noticed a “dead end” sign were one should not be, that is, miles down the road we had just ridden.



The road looked fairly new and newly striped, as well, and we knew we wouldn’t sleep that night if we didn't follow it to its end.

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And end it did, abruptly, at the river.


One needs read the map, closely (at a glance, the road appears to cross the river, here).
Detoured and back on track, we rolled into Dyersburg, Tennessee after dark, looking for a night's lodging. The clerk at a franchise motel seemed to think that having a pimp’s car parked in the lot entitled them to screw honest travelers, but we weren't having it. They weren’t the only game in town, just the only one with vacant rooms so, full of the spirit of adventure, we headed for the closest next town, South Fulton, near the state line.
The motel in South Fulton is owned by… Rashid!

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This is the other Rashid's worthless brother and quite a hand at giving red dot hoteliers a black eye.
But, the rates were low and we were given a discount for paying with cash. I want to use the term, "rat hole money", but won't.

Every electric plug in the room ended at a single extension cord. It looked like one of those ads that warn you against plugging all your Christmas lights into one outlet. One of those cords served a television, though, and we could see that the good folks at the Weather Channel had arranged more great days for us to motorcycle in.
Though shabby, the place was clean and the bed comfortable and I slept the sleep of the innocent.




More :

4.Interstate Flight

From Corpus Christi, TX we have traveled and seen some of Arkansas, cut off Missouri’s boot heel and come to rest in the thriving metropolis of South Fulton, Tennessee.
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Shaking the dust of South Fulton from our feet, our short-term goal is to cross the great state of Kentucky. Having ridden across her a couple years ago, we are familiar with the parkways. The roads are good and the scenery lush, but if you would miss gaudy billboards, fireworks stands, cloned motels and trucks, then the parkways are not for you. Jill set the pace somewhere on the fat side of the posted speed suggestion and it wasn’t all that long till we found the end of the Cumberland Parkway, just outside the town of Somerset.

We stopped at a way station. With a lusty laugh, brandishing my saber, I shouted, “Regular for my men and Premium for the horses!" No, wait… that’s not what happened.
At our fuel stop in Somerset I did meet Monty, a polite and confident young man who expressed interest our travels. While not attracted to street riding, Monty owns a dirt bike and rides it on Granny’s farm and riding out there ain't for sissies. He told me to watch for him on TV because one day he’ll be a motocross champion. “I like it, and I’m good at it”, he told me. Judging from our brief encounter, and by what I’ve seen of the terrain, I’m inclined to believe him on all counts.

The terrain becomes increasingly vertical. The Hal Rogers Parkway is fantastic, sweeping through the towering forested hills.

We fuel near the town of Hazard; a coal operation is white against the hillside, powdery black, beneath. The road gets steeper and seems to wind down and down.

There's a hillbilly song that begins, “I’d rather live in some dark hollow… where the sun don’t ever shine…”
We could see that hollow from the road. Our larger map begins to read like a history of country music. Hazard, Harlan and Pike County, Kentucky are names familiar from songs and legends. We have heard "Cumberland Gap" sung “Knoxville Girl” and played the “Black Mountain Rag”.

I am far away from Texas, yet, close to home.

What a ride! I didn’t know whether to have a smoke, cuddle and talk about my feelings, or just roll over and go to sleep. I have this rule about sleeping behind bars, though, so we found our way to Jenny Wiley State Resort Park.

We pulled up to a closed ranger station and sat for a minute, taking stock. Directly, the Park Host rolled up in his personal golf cart and welcomed us. Such nice folks, he and his wife; they made us feel like we were long awaited guests. He and Jill carted off to inspect available tent sites, returned, and soon our summer home was erected. We rode over to the park lodge, walked in past a guitarist singing to a cozy group of guests about how “There ain’t one hammer in this tunnel that rings like mine, that rings like mine…”, and into the restaurant.

Our waitress was impressed by the length of our travels. She and her husband had been on her first long ride the previous weekend. On a Honda VTX 1300, it took them two days to ride to the Virginia coast. Being short on time, they made the six hundred mile return trip in one day.
It was my turn to be impressed.

Having tended to the needs of the flesh, we stopped in the parking lot to admire a copperhead snake that was chasing a girl, then fired up the bikes and returned to camp for a shower and shave. We wanted to smell our best, as the following day would mark one of the high points of our ride. Then, I rolled over and went to sleep.

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Morning found us on the road, bound for a rendezvous somewhere south of Pikeville. I had the Valkyrie in 5th and my mind in neutral when a rider on a black Valkyrie passed headed north. As recognition dawned, a Valkyrie trike piloted by a lovely woman with a winning smile followed. They are our friends, Highbinder and Lady Draco, come to meet us and guide us to their home hidden in the Virginia hills.

They opened their door, showed us around, fed us, entertained us and made us feel comfortable and welcome.

You know, life on the farm is kind of laid back. Having met the cows, we watched the sun set, and then took hay to the pasture for them and the horses. All I lacked having a hayride was a guitar player singing about stripes on the highway.

The following day, we went for a ride and stopped near a farm where fighting cocks are raised. On the chicken ranch, the hens roam around while the cocks have to stay tied to their coops. That just don't seem right, but otherwise the roosters will do what comes natural and attack each other.

It was interesting, all right, I'd never seen so many cocks hanging out in one place, but the real attraction is the countryside, itself. Southwest Virginia is a beautiful place.

We follow Highbinder and the Lady on SH 16, the most dangerous road in Virginia, and US 421, “The Snake”. Jill enjoyed chasing the Virginians, giving her Magna a workout in the twisties, but the time came that we had to part ways.

As beautiful as Virginia is, and the people in it, we'd promised to meet a brother rider in Asheville that evening.

Having said our goodbyes, our friends followed the winding back roads to their hidden farm, while Jill and I found our road had to be the super slab. We set our wheels on Interstate 26 bound for another reunion.

More follows.

5. Getting in the French Broad

Riding on an Interstate Highway ain’t so bad if you do it real quick and we were only 160 miles from our reunion with friends near Asheville, North Carolina.
Since the route to Hagen’s Cycles was pretty simple we headed in that direction and found himself on his way and followed him home.The eve was spent catching up and planning an excursion for the following day.



In the morning we revisitedt I-26. We wanted to see our brother’s shop. It’s in a former Burlington Mill complex across the street from the river.
Hagen is justifiably proud of the progress he’s made in the short time he’s been there and we are tickled for him. Next stop, Maggie Valley and the Wheels Through Time Museum.



WTT features American made vehicles and the bikes date back to the turn of the 19th century. The owner is a master restorer and the exhibits are wonderful.


This Crocker was cutting edge, in it's day ↓




and this rare Harley-Davidson is a 'civilianized' army issue. ↓



I got off to the bare-bones look of the hill climbers with their tiny fuel tanks.



Meanwhile, Jill wandered off to take in a "photographic history of women in motorcycling” which depicts women motorcyclists from the earliest days of the sport.



Riding in western North Carolina requires a visit to Deals Gap. I think its the law.



Time prohibited riding through the gap but we’d promised a friend that we’d bring her a Dragon T-shirt. Deals Gap Motorcycle Resort is a great place to people and bike watch.

All kinds of bikers visit, sport-tourists, cruiser riders with bandannas and serious sport bikers with leathers nice enough for a first date all rub shoulders. While I was discussing the resort lunch menu with Jill a fellow in the line told me that the hamburger came highly recommended.
There’s a good reason for that.

After lunch we looked around the parts department



and then the souvenir shop where we got our bud a shirt, then, in the wind. Chasing Hagen back down the hill was a hoot. Jill and I only got lost once.



That night, we all went to Asheville in Hagen’s classic cage and were tourists. Asheville is home to about 50,000 souls and downtown is a great place to be on Saturday night.
There are lots of interesting stores and outdoor restaurants. I pointed out to Hagen’s son that Asheville seemed to attract a lot of long-legged women, too, but he, being the observant young man he is, had already taken note of that fact.

There is no place we wandered where I felt that we had to be particularly on our guard. The only problem was, we got kind of a late start in a city that closes kind of early. The only restaurant we could get in was too noisy and crowded for us to justify eating their pricey fare. We began to formulate Plan B.

One of the things I’ve learned in my travels is that you can always get fed and be entertained at the Waffle House. Asheville’s Waffle House is no different.
Our waitress was a good ol’ girl with semi-big hair and a lively sense of humor who confirmed that the official North Carolina greeting is not, “howdy”, “hey y’all”, or “What it is, my bruhhhhhhh-thah?” No, the official North Carolina greeting is: “You doing alright?”

I also learned that the official North Carolina auto distress signal is a shirt hung in the window. No one will tow or molest a car thus designated because he knows the owner is coming back for his shirt. After a hearty supper of pecan waffles, eggs and wiener gravy, we finally had to call that night a day and head for the barn.

There, we decided that Sunday would be a little more laid back. No twisties except for the ones we’d take getting to the river.



That morn, we decided to pile in Hagen’s classic Ford for the ride to the French Broad River. Recently acquired, there has not been time to attend to all its quirks. For instance, the reverse gear needs a little warming up to work. The alternative is hillbilly reverse, which is a variation of 1%er reverse, only with more people.



Another repair still on the list is the gas gage.



Having asked the householder if he could leave the Ford by his yard, Hagen picked up a gas can, stood by the road, and soon someone who recognized him as living in the area stopped and gave him a lift. You got to love it.

The ladies and Hagen Jr., and I, wandered across the street by the creek to enjoy the shade, never imagining that the property was private. The owner came over, said we were welcome to hang out, and regaled the women with tales of his family and rope swings.



You’ll note that southern ladies wear their hats even in the shade, but not when they are rope swinging.





In about the time it takes to tell about it, Hagen returned in his truck with fuel for the car. Arriving at a small park, we piled our stuff at a primo spot by the French Broad River. Though deep and slow where she flows by the shop, this stretch is rocky and quick and attracts kayakers and other hooligans.



Being a Gulf coast dweller, I usually don’t swim in water under 80°, but I couldn’t resist sliding into the French Broad. Once in past my… waist… and having caught my breath, it was great. For whatever reason neither the river nor the air robbed my body heat.

Hagen and I indulged in a sport that is part rock climbing, part skating and part scuba diving without gear. No one had to rescue us. Any swim I can walk away from is a good one, but the time we had at the river was double plus good.




Monday came all too soon. After packing the bikes we swung by Hagen’s Cycles for neck hugging and goodbyes. This is also mid point for our ride.

The way home begins on the Blue Ridge Parkway.