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.
No comments:
Post a Comment