"No problem" was the response that I got when I called Boulder Yamaha to ask them if they might be willing to take delivery of my FJ1200. With that bit of information and a call to the Federal Companies to arrange for them to pick up my bike, my trip west was coming together. This was the first time I had used my contacts on the e Internet to pick up some local knowledge about the area I was riding into. In the past, I've just gotten on the bike and gone, hoping to find good roads and interesting places as I went. This time I did a little research on the net. I posted a request to rec.motorcycles. I asked a few questions. 1. What shop might be willing to take delivery of the FJ? 2. How best to get there from the Airport? 3. What shouldn't I miss while I was out there. Within a day or two of my post, answers began to filter in. On the weekend that I was planning to arrive the annual Vintage Races would be happening in Steamboat Springs. Many of the local bike shops would be closed because they would be racing at Steamboat. However there was a consensus that Boulder Yamaha would be open and that their service manager was a good guy and would probably let me send the bike there. They also said that I could to Boulder from Stapelton Airport via a $15 shuttle bus. So that was the extent of the planning I did for this trip. Ship the bike to Boulder, take the shuttle to get it and head up to Steamboat.
On the Monday before I left, Jackie at The Federal Companies called me to say that my bike had made it to Boulder. A call to the dealer confirmed it was there and in one piece. With that news, all I had to do was pack up the tent and my Givi's and wait for Friday.
Friday September 16, was quite a nice day. I was up at 4:30 am to make a 6:50 flight to Denver. I really didn't notice what it was like in Jersey that morning. The car service was waiting at the appointed hour. I piled in and was delivered to the airport. As I handed over my set of brand new Givi luggage to the Skycap and was given a pair of baggage checks, I hoped that I would see them again later in the day. The flight was uneventful. Newark to Detroit, change planes and then on to Denver. One thing I did notice, it was a beautiful day all across the country. Not a cloud in the sky and I could see for hundreds of miles across the ground below. I marveled for a minute or two that what was taking a few hours to cover in the air would take (at least I was going to take) two weeks to cover on my way home. At 11:00 Denver time the plane landed I stumbled out. My Givi's came off the luggage belt, no worse for the trip. I found my way to the proper shuttle bus which after about an hour's ride along the foot of the mountains dropped me in front of Boulder Yamaha.
The FJ was there waiting for me. When I asked for it they said "Just a minute" and proceeded to wash the bike for me. It had gotten a bit dirty in their holding area and they wanted it to leave the store clean. I was pleasantly surprised at this. I thanked them profusely for taking such good care of my machine, paid for the cans of chain lube and spray cleaner that I bought, snapped on the Givi's and bungied the camping gear onto the back. It was 1:00 PM, the odometer read 5800 miles and I was on my way to 12,000 feet.
I got onto US 36 in Boulder and headed north toward Estes Park. The folks on the Internet as well as a few of my riding buddies said that if I was going to Steamboat and not coming back the same way, I shouldn't miss Trail Ridge Road (US 34) through Rocky Mountain National Park. I stopped for lunch in Estes Park. It was about 2 PM local time and I was really hungry. Estes Park was another one of those cute tourist towns with cute little gift shops and such. After lunch I headed up US 34 and into the park. The admission fee for cars was posted ahead of the entrance gate, but when I pulled up to pay I was surprised that they only wanted the walk-in rate ($2 or $3). I took the official park brochure and headed in. Once in the park it became clear to me just how high up I was. Very quickly, the trees began to thin out and it started getting cold. As I rode up past the tree line little pockets of snow began to appear. I wondered how long ago it snowed. It was a bright day and I knew that there wasn't any chance of bad weather. As I looked into the deep, dark green valleys below I also saw bright flashes of bright yellow. The Aspens were beginning to change color. In Colorado, fall colors mean Aspen gold.
I stopped at the highest point on any through paved road in the United States. As I rolled to a stop the bike stalled. That was the first time I realized that the FJ does perform differently at high altitude (in this case 12,183'). The engine stopped just as I let off the throttle to pull off to the side of the road for the requisite picture. Luckily it started right up, with just a few more revs than usually necessary. As I came down into the next valley, there was a knot of cars stopped on the side of the road and people were running into the woods. I slowed down and looked to my left into the woods. What they were running toward was an elk (not Anne Elk). I chose not to join the parade toward the giant creature. It was a male with a full rack of antlers. As I sat there on the bike watching these people make their assault on the elk, the only thing I could think of was "Gee, if it starts running this way they don't have half a chance to make it to their cars, and I sure as heck don't have anywhere to hide". With that I let out the clutch and continued down to the end of Trail Ridge road occasionally looking over my shoulder to be sure that Anne Elk wasn't hot on my tail.
As I pulled up to the stop sign at the end of Trail Ridge, someone on a BMW 'R' bike shot across on US 40. I pulled in behind them. We rode together for about 30 miles along the river toward Kremmling. At Kremmling we pulled into a gas station, pulled off our helmets and said "Hello." At this point I realized that it wasn't a guy I was running behind but a woman. Deborah Lower introduced her self to me and we spent a minute or two figuring out that we had a few friends in common. We filled up our bikes, had a snack and continued on to Steamboat. Once we got into Steamboat Deborah peeled off. I set about finding somewhere to spend the night. When I planned this trip I really wasn't quite sure haw far I'd get or what I was going to do the first day, so I didn't make any hotel reservations. With the races going on there didn't seem to be a single room in town.
I pulled into one of the only motels that didn't have their 'NO' sign lit. I went in and asked about a room. The woman at the counter said that all they had was a big room with three beds and a couch in it, for a price that I wasn't quite ready to pay. I said "No thanks, but do you know anywhere else that I could try?". She thought for a minute and then made a phone call. "Yep, there's a room in your price range at the Oak Avenue Bed and Breakfast." I thanked her, got directions and asked her to call them and tell them that I was on my way over. The room was really nice (maybe a bit too nice, frilly canopy bed and all) and came with a hot breakfast the next morning. I settled in to the room and took a nap. When I woke up it was dark and about eight o'clock. I wanted dinner. The B&B was one block off the main drag. My hosts pointed me to a few possibilities within walking distance, so I went out in search of food.
I found myself standing, looking at the menu posted in front of a Mexican restaurant, and as I turned away from it I nearly bumped into Deb along with a group of Denver BMW people. "Hello again," I say. She is surprised to see me again, but invites me to join them for dinner. We go in, sit down and proceed to wait. It turns out that we are waiting for one of Deb's friends named Danielle. I think to my self, no it couldn't be, but a few minutes later a familiar face from New York comes through the door. After dinner I went back to Oak Ave. (I recommend the place) and went dead off to sleep. 193 miles.
I spent Saturday watching the vintage races. It was pretty exciting. The course at Steamboat is the only motorcycle road course run on public streets. There are lots of changes in elevation and one or two tricky turns. The BMW crowd had invited me to hang out at their condo during the races. It overlooked turn 2 and provided quite a nice vantage point. I spent the day watching the races and ogling the bikes in the pits. After the races the BMW folks had a home-made pasta dinner. It was just the thing to cap off a day in the sun at the races. After dinner I said my good-byes and headed out of town. Out of town, because that's the only place my hosts at the B&B could find for me to stay. Steamboat was completely sold out because of the races. I spent the night in Oak Creek, about 25 miles outside of Steamboat. 76 miles.
It was a chilly morning at 7,000 feet. I hadn't slept very well because I wasn't used to the thin air. I didn't notice it during the day, and the FJ didn't seem to mind, but at night trying to get to sleep, I could sense that there wasn't quite the same amount of O2 in the air. I was up early, still not completely adjusted to the 2 hour time difference. There wasn't any place for breakfast early on a Sunday morning in a hunting town before hunting season so I headed south on CO 131 toward I 70. I found breakfast in Eagle and got onto I-70 heading West.
I was reluctant to get onto the interstate. I knew that every time I get onto the interstate after about 20 miles I'll do anything to get off of it. I wasn't prepared for what I saw. I spent most of the my time on the top deck of a double deck roadway hugging the narrow walls of the Colorado River canyon. I rode I-70 into Glenwood springs and then headed off on CO 82 to 133. This took me over the McClure Pass (8,755') and then onto CO 92 into Delta. My goal for the day was to get to Moab, UT and to cover at least a few decent roads. I would have liked to go through Aspen and the Independence Pass, but that would have taken me in the wrong direction and I did want to see Moab. From Delta it was up US 50 to Grand Junction.
As I headed up US 50 the land began to open up into more of a grassland. Until about Delta I had been riding in, what looked to this flatlander, like real mountains. As I approached Grand Junction I began to look for signs for the Colorado National Monument. A number of friends had said that this was a 'don't miss'. As I followed the signs into the park and passed the 'closed for the season' toll booth, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. I came around a curve and found myself in a scene out of a John Ford western. The road snaked around the rim of tall red-rock canyons. Out in the middle of the canyons stood mesas and balancing rocks. I was in awe. There was no question in my mind weather to watch the scenery or ride the road. I took in every bit of the scenery. Leaving the monument I stopped for lunch and then, without any other choice got onto I-70 and headed West toward Utah.
As I approached the Colorado Utah border the land changed from open grassland to what I can best describe as desert. There was absolutely nothing except some scrub covering the rolling landscape. About 20 miles into Utah I turned off onto UT 128. There was nothing at the exit, just a sign and a cattle trap. The sign pointed toward Moab. I followed it. The beginning of UT 128 had recently been given the 'HOT OIL' treatment so there was plenty of loose stone to deal with. The road soon edged up against the Colorado River and drew me into Slick Rock country. The stones went away and I found myself looking at landscape that I had never seen before. Slick rock is deep red, very smooth sedimentary rock that makes up the entire landscape of this part of Utah. UT 128 hugs the river and cuts though the back part of Arches National monument. It's another road that shouldn't be missed. As I got closer to Moab, the sky began to darken and I could see flashes of lightning coming getting closer. There isn't any cover, was the first thing that ran through my mind. I pressed on hoping that I could beat out what ever was coming my way. It was still light, but the rain was still threatening when I got into Moab and began to cruise for motel space. I had had a long day on the road and it was expected to be a cool night, I wasn't in the mood to camp. Moab is kind of an 'up-scale out-doors' town. It caters to the mountain bike, rock climbing and hiking crowd that comes to play on the slick rock. Once again, lots of NO signs. I stop at an affordable looking place, but they are out of affordable rooms. When I ask where else to try?, The manager makes a call and finds me a room at the Red Vale Homes. He says that it's a nice B&B and they had a room in my price range. The Red Valle Homes was a few blocks off the main street. It was made up of a private home and a trailer court. I went in and met Lilly Ann Balsley. This was Lilly and her husband Tom's home. Things were as promised. They had a room with a private bath just off of the living room. When I asked where I could park the bike, she took me through the kitchen, introduced me to Tom, who proceeded to take me into the garage where I found their son's Harley. "You can pull in right here," Tom said as he opened the garage door. I had a nice room at a moto-friendly place. Just as I pulled the bike into the garage it began to rain. "My luck is running high." I thought.
After unloading the bike and settling into the room, I walked the few blocks into town. At Lilly Ann's suggestion I had dinner at the town's brew-pub. I had a good mug of stout and some sort of chicken-avocado pizza. After I got back to the B&B I spend the evening taking with Lilly and two sets of people from Germany. Moab was loaded with German tourists. It seems that September is the time to come to America and do the national park circuit. Arches National Monument was often on their agenda. 368 miles.
I spent the morning riding down into Arches National Monument. Arches has the highest concentration of natural rock bridges anywhere in the country. The landscape, more like moonscape, was stunning. I had never seen such wide vistas of red rocks. I rode the mile or so of dirt road up to see Delicate Arch, cruised through the rest of the park and headed south. I would have liked to spend more time in the Canyonlands, as the area is known, but I wanted to be at T.W.O by Saturday Night.
I headed south from Moab on US 191. I had initially planned to head back into the mountains and up to Telluride, but the weather looked wet and maybe a little icy at the higher elevations so I opted for the lower route. I picked up US 666 and headed back into Colorado. US 666 is a desolate road. When I reached the intersection of CO 184 the weather began to look a little better. I took a chance and decided that I really wanted to see Telluride and do the Million Dollar Highway. I headed up across Lizard Head Pass (el. 10,222) The road was damp, and it got really cold going over the pass. It was amazing what a 4,000 foot elevation change could do to the weather. It wasn't raining, but there was moisture in the air. It was early in the afternoon when I got into Telluride. I drove down the main street, stopped for a break and turned around and rode back up. Telluride is boxed in by a mountain. My goal that afternoon was to ride the Million Dollar Highway and spend the night in Durango. On the map the distance was about 100 miles. I had about four hours until dark, easy I thought.
Easy it wasn't. Just out of Telluride I caught up with the rain. I had been riding behind it all day and I guess it was inevitable that I'd catch up to it. I stopped at a decomposing gas station that still had something left of a canopy over where its gas pumps once stood and got into my rain gear and waited. I secretly wished that the simple act of putting on my plastic suit would drive the rain away. It didn't, so I got back on the FJ and continued on up CO 62 toward US 550. Once I made it across the pass the weather cleared up, the road opened up and made its way down into a valley. I picked up US 550 south and headed for Ouray. At Ouray the road began to climb, the road was still damp and it began to get cold again. When I hit Silverton it had started to rain again, not pouring down rain, but enough to get everything very wet. Just after Silverton, there is a big sign proclaiming an S in the road. What it didn't say was that this S goes straight up. Going up the wet road wasn't so bad. What began to bother me was that there wasn't anything between me, the edge of the road, and the some thousand foot drop to the river below. "Don't be a statistic," was the only thought that kept going through my head. Luckily traffic was light and there was no one on my tail. The only thing I had to worry about was getting caught behind the propane tanker that I could see snaking along the edge of the mountain about a mile ahead. I knew that once I got over Coal Bank Pass it would be down hill to Durango. Down hill was right. I thought that I had it together heading up the S turns in the rain, coming down them was a completely different experience. Mud and gravel washed across parts of the road, this helped to hold my attention. I took my time, the road became less steep and I made it into Purgatory. I was cold and wet, but in one piece.
When I pulled up in front of the general store in Purgatory I had to sit on the bike for a minute as I figured how to unclench my fingers from the handle bars. Once inside I had the best cup of hot chocolate ever. After about half an hour of warming up and getting a snack I moved on to Durango. The rain had finally tailed off and the road offered no more S turns that went into the sky. I reached Durango at dusk only to be greeted by a sea of red neon 'NO' signs. I cruised the strip and pulled into one of the only places who's 'NO' sign is dark. In front of me is a pickup truck with a gun rack. Both of us get to the counter. Yes, there's a room, $60 in the old section of this old 1930's vintage motel. I wasn't desperate, yet and the price was a bit steep for the good-old-boy in the pickup. The motel clerk asked which way I was heading, "South" I said. Then the good-old-boy suggested I go out to Ignacio where the Ute Indians had recently opened a casino. The clerk agreed, he said that they always had plenty of room mid week, and that the rooms and the food were a good value. On their word alone, I left the red neon gulf of 'NO' and headed into the dark toward the Sky Ute Lodge. Ignacio was about 20 miles out of Durango. All I remember is that it was dark and a bit cold. I followed the blazer signs through Ignacio. On the other side of town I was greeted by a large electronic animated billboard announcing my arrival at the Sky Ute Lodge.
I went inside, rain gear and all, to find a beautifully polished Harley in a Plexiglas case sitting in the lobby. Once again, a moto friendly place, I relaxed. I'm never sure just how I'm going to be treated when I show up at a motel in full regalia. The HD was a pretty good sign that things would be all right. I checked in. They gave me the key to a nice new room. Sure, it wasn't a B&B, but it was a really nice motel and a good value. I took a hot shower, a nap and then had dinner. After that, I spent an hour or so playing the slots and blackjack in the casino. I broke even on the 10 dollars I had allowed myself. 398 miles.
Monday dawned rather gray at the Sky Ute Lodge. I wasn't in a big hurry to get on the road. I spent most of the day chasing the rain that I had come through the day before. The road was wet in the shadows of every turn. I often could see the rain ahead of me. From Ignacio I headed west and south toward the town of Chama, New Mexico. Some of the folks at Steamboat said that I shouldn't miss Rt. 17, that runs back up into Colorado and West to Antonito. 17 was a nice road, crossing the Combre Pass at just over 10 thousand feet. There is a scenic rail road that winds across most of the road, it was fun playing tag with the train as we wound through the pass. The road was, so I wasn't inclined to carve through there at high speed.
Colorado 17 came out of the mountains and down into the plain that led up to the Rio Grande at Antonito. I wanted to go to Santa Fe, but with the late start and the realization that I still had many miles ahead, I opted to head for Taos. Heading toward Taos, where US 64 crosses the Rio Grande is a wide plain, with what appears to be a narrow gap in it. As I crossed the bridge, I looked down and to my amazement there was a deep canyon with the river running at the bottom of it. At the end of the bridge I stopped the bike turned around and went back to the lookout point a the other side of the bridge to take a better look. Way at the bottom of this deep red slit in the earth ran the Rio Grande. The rain began to threaten, so it was back on the bike and heading for Taos. I stopped for lunch on the outskirts of Taos at some local tex/mex diner. There were lots of cars parked out front. It looked like a popular spot. It was a filling lunch, no ill effects. After lunch I spent a little time looking at the artsy craftsy shops there, I now know that I should have gone out of town to the Pueblo to see the Indian village.
East of Taos, US 64 winds into the Sangre de Christo mountains. Most of the way it following a beautiful canyon and then goes up through the Palo Felchado Pass. At Agua Fria the road burst into a beautiful sunny high meadow and wrapped around Eagle's nest lake to the town of eagle's nest. As I came through Eagle's Nest someone standing next to an old Gold Wing waved to me from in front of a motel. I waved back and headed toward Cimarron. When I looked at the map in Taos, the town of Cimarron caught my eye. It was in the right direction, and it had some kind of old west mystique about it that was likely planted by the westerns I saw on TV. From Eagle's nest US 64 comes down through the most beautiful canyon I saw on the trip. It was also a great road to ride with a long series of twists through Cimarron Canyon State Park and the Philmont Boy Scout Ranch. After coming through Philmont, the road worked its way out of the mountains and into the plains of the great southwest.
The road leveled out and opened onto a plain that seemed to stretch into the east for ever. Ahead lay Cimarron, a strip town of dirty looking gas stations, restaurants and motels spread out in two neat rows each about 300 feet back from the road. I could tell why this town had a big hand in the wild west, it just seemed hostile. It began to sprinkle. I pulled up under the canopy of a gas station to fill up and put on my rain gear. From Cimarron east I new that I'd be riding through rather flat country. The map also showed that there wasn't anything that looked like a good place to stop for the next 100 miles. Then I remembered the guy with the Wing, at the motel by the lake in Eagle's Nest. "That seemed like a nice place," I thought, "Besides, it would be fun to run through the canyon again." Eagle's Nest was the right answer. I wasn't ready to leave the mountains and face what I anticipated to be the least interesting part of my journey quite yet.
I enjoyed the trip back through the canyon. As I came around the mountain into Eagle's Nest I saw the Moore Rest Motel, still there was the Wing and someone bent over it with a screwdriver. I pulled in, he looked up and we talked for a bit. He introduced himself as Rich. "The manager of the motel and his wife had stepped out for a few minutes, they should be back soon," he said. We each talked about where we had been and where we were going. It turned out that Rich had quit his job in California after the company he was working for merged with another. He had taken a thousand dollars in savings and had been riding around the West all summer, camping where he could, doing odd jobs in exchange for a room or a meal. He was just bumming around the west. The manager and his wife came back, I checked in and Rich agreed to get me when he was ready to get dinner. An hour or so later Rich knocked on my door. I had drifted off into a nap by that time. I was still a bit tired from they day before's trip down the Million Dollar Highway in the he rain. I got up and we rode the half mile into town. Rich's first choice for dinner was closed, so we settled for another place.
Just as we sat down, the manager of the motel came through the door. We invited him to join us. We spent most of dinner swapping tales of where we had been and where we might like to go. It was in-between the Summer fishing season and the Winter ski season so there wasn't a whole lot going on in town, except for the annual fall fishing derby. We also heard about the intrigue in a small tourist town in New Mexico where everyone knows everything about everyone else. 305 miles.
Clouds shrouded the pass above Eagle's Nest on Wednesday morning. As I cut through the clouds I found the sun was shinning on the other side. I headed down through the canyon toward Cimarron. I was glad I turned around the night before. One more trip through the gorgeous canyon made it easier for me to face the flat lands ahead. Once again, at Cimarron the land opened up. "Dead straight and flat for the next two days," I thought. I was wrong. I spent most of my time on secondary roads riding the range between towns. The roads were fast with rolling hills and occasional sweeping turns. I had my first chance to test my new Givi hard bags at speed. I was pleased, at 110 MPH the bike was perfectly smooth. It didn't matter that the passenger seat was loaded with camping gear, or the big fat Givi's were hanging out to the sides, the FJ just cruised down the road. The roads through the Panhandle of Texas have wide shoulders. When you come up behind slower moving traffic, they simply move on to the shoulder, maintaining their pace and let you go right by. It amazed me that not once that day did I ever have to cross the center line of a road to pass anyone. It's too bad they don't do that back East.
As I headed toward Phillips, TX, the land began to mutate into a mars-scape. There was deep red earth and rocks with occasional brush. The land took on an irregular shape with great lumps and boulders, with oil wells interspersed between them. As I got closer to Phillips the scene shifted to something out of 'Blade Runner'. Ahead of me high on a bluff was a petro-chem complex that stretched on for miles. The air began to fill with the smell of Texas crude, and I knew that I needed to get out of there.
As I got closer to Oklahoma the land became prairie and smoothed out. As I headed into Clinton, OK I picked up a bit of 'Historic Route 66'. It was really just a strip of road that paralleled I-40, with the occasional ghost of a motel or service station that echoed its more traveled past. I settled into some non-descript discount motel for the night. 442 miles.
I spent Thursday running on the trailing edge of a cold front. They skies were clearing, but it was cool, ahead of me I could see the cloud deck that defined the edge of the front. From Clinton I decided to head south, to avoid Oklahoma City. As I turned east the roads were straight, but with rolling hills, still enough to keep the ride interesting and stop me from getting on the interstate. I passed through the town that was the birth place of former Speaker of the House of Representatives, Carl Albert. It was also home to a scary looking maximum security prison.
I crossed the Canadian River, which wasn't all that impressive in itself, but it signaled the return to some interesting terrain. Heading East toward Mc Alester and Krebs on US 270, I made my way toward Ouachita National Forest. I'm convinced that you can't go wrong when you ride through a national forest. The roads are usually in good shape. They usually encompass some mountains or at least some nice twisty roads. OK 1 was no exception. It rose east into the Ozarks, like a misguided Blue Ridge Parkway, along the ridge of the Ozarks. The Ozarks is the only mountain range in the US that runs East to West. Unlike the Blue Ridge Parkway OK 1 didn't seem to have seen much traffic lately. Of course it was after Labor Day, but that still didn't seem to account for the grass growing up in the occasional cracks in the pavement. The views of the valleys below were wonderful. You could see the fall colors change before your eyes just by looking down from the ridge. The trees at the top had lost most of their leaves. As you scanned down the mountain you could see bright reds, yellows and browns. In the valley things were still green as ever.
It was getting a bit late in the afternoon, and I hadn't covered as much ground as I would have liked. I still wanted to make Hot Springs that night, but I knew that I wasn't going to have enough time to get in early, and find someplace interesting to stay. So I stopped at one of the park's visitor centers and called ahead to booked a room at the local Super8. That eliminated the chance of not being able to find a room after a long day on the road. I settled down to enjoy the rest of the afternoon's ride. I crossed the Arkansas border and OK 1 became AR 88. AR 88 wound along the ridge through Ink, Cherry Hill and Pencil Bluff, before joining up with US 270 in Oden. These little towns, usually just the remnant of a gas station and a few houses looked very peaceful. My thoughts turned to apple pie and home cooking. US 270 was a pleasant road, wide, well paved and winding though the Ouachita Mountains.
It was about eight in the evening when I rolled into Hot Springs. I was quite tired and very hungry. I rode through town and headed south, following a billboard's directions to the Super8. I had no interest in taking in any of the scenery, just get me to bed and dinner. I found the motel well south of town. It was in an area that looked like the suburbs had just recently overtaken it. The road was freshly widened with a string of the usual fast food joints that you can find on the suburb-strip just south of anytown. I got settled into the room, it was the same room that I always end up in when I stay at a Super8. It isn't bad that it's the same room, but after a day on the road like this one, its kind of comforting. I napped for half an hour, took a shower and went down to the front desk to ask were to go for dinner. I told the woman at the desk that I really wanted some home cooking. It had been a cool day on the road and I was in need of comfort food. She pointed across the highway and said, "You just go on over to Mrs. Miller's, they'll take good care of you." I looked across the road and there was a 1930's vintage, white clapboard covered road house with a big sign "Mrs. Miller's Dinners." I headed across the highway.
Mrs. Miller's Dinner's is built to hold a lot of people, but at nine o'clock on a Thursday night there wasn't but two sets of people finishing their meals. "Are you still serving," I asked the hostess, as I looked around the empty dining room. "Until 10 o'clock, sit yourself right down here," she said as she escorted me to a white table-clothed table. "We only serve complete meals," she said as she set the menu on the table. The menu listed the basic foods of the south. Fried Chicken, Chicken Fried Steak, Pork Chops, Roast Chicken and a few other standards. I settled on the roast chicken. I could tell that this was going to be good. I did get the feeling that I was in my long lost southern aunt's dining room. The appearance of my waitress confirmed it. "Sweet or not?", was her question. That was the first time I had this question put to me this trip. The iced tea, of course, was what she was referring to. I knew I was back in the south, the land of limitless sweet tea. "Sweet," I answered. So began the procession of rolls, salad, main course, mashed potatoes, veggies cooked beyond recognition and desert (ice cream, I think). I talked a bit with the waitress, the usual where are you from? where are you going?...on a motorcycle? Alone? I rolled out of Mrs. Miller's stuffed and content. 450 Miles.
Once I was out of Little Rock, the land flattened out. By the time I got close to Helena where the road crosses the river, it was getting rather warm and I was passing by miles and miles of farm country. 200 miles was showing on my trip meter since the morning when I filled the tank. I knew it was time to get gas, but I wanted to get across the Mississippi, so I passed a perfectly good gas station in Helena. "There will be plenty of places to stop just on the other side," I thought. "Its the only river crossing for 50 miles around, there has to lots of stuff on the other side." Wrong. As I crossed over the mighty river and came down the other side of the bridge, all I saw ahead of me was a day glow sign announcing the presence of a riverboat gambling casino. I knew that the FJ1200 gets roughly 200 miles on a tank of gas. This was a heavily loaded FJ1200 and was also one that I'd never run dry with. The next dot on the map was 5 miles ahead. Helena by this time was at least 12 miles behind. I went for the next dot. Unfortunately the dot contained only the decomposing remains of a gas station. I stopped to look at the map. A pickup truck paused to ask if I was lost. "No," I said, "but where's the nearest gas station?" "About 15 miles south in Clarksdale" came the answer. I thanked him and took up a conservative 50 mile an hour pace toward Clarksdale. I worked hard to avoid the urge to speed up as car after car passed me. I wondered just how far I'd be from the gas station when the fumes that I was riding on would run out. All of these thoughts left me as the gas station came into sight. I got the bike stopped at the pumps and opened the tank to find quite a bit of fuel left sloshing around in the bottom. I knew better than to pass a perfectly good gas station. Luckily that was the worst thing that had happened so far on the trip. No damage, not even any time lost, just a little more stress than was necessary.
Out of Clarkesdale I continued East on Mississippi 6. This was cotton country. Everywhere I looked there were fields of cotton just waiting to be picked. Tufts of it were blowing everywhere. Trucks loaded high with bales of it were lining up in front of the local gin for processing. I had never seen a cotton field before, and in Mississippi, they seemed to stretch for miles. The land had flattened out, but still had a bit of a roll to it. The sights were interesting enough to hold my attention as I rode into Tupelo. This was the end of my first week on the road. I had covered many miles and now I was getting into the routine of living off the bike rather than from home. 432 Miles.
The first problem was that AL 117 was under construction. As I look back at this I'm quite sure that the detour that they sent me on was just before I would have crossed the parkway. They sent me south, up onto the ridge and across about 5 miles of really nice road. Unfortunately it didn't get me any closer to where I was going. I tried back tracking a couple of times, but still no Lookout Mountain Parkway. By then I had lost about an hour as I crossed the ridge a couple of times, working my way north and looking for the parkway. I stopped for gas and a snack. When I looked at the clock in the store, I realized that I hadn't just lost an hour looking for a road. I had crossed back into the Eastern Time Zone and it was now an hour later that I originally thought. "OK," I thought. "Back on the bike and head for TWO." I didn't want to have to go the last twenty two miles to TWO in the dark.
I pointed myself straight (or as straight as one can in those parts) toward Blue Ridge Georgia. I even stuck to the bigger roads in order not to lose any time. In Blue Ridge I turned onto Georgia 60. It was about 7:00 in the evening. Good, still enough light to make it across one of the twistier roads that I know. I stopped in the little drive-in in Morganton to pick up something for dinner. I knew from experience that there wouldn't be anything to eat once I got up to TWO. As I waited for my chicken dinner to come out of the fryer I could see the daylight slipping away. For a minute the New Yorker in me kicked in and I had thoughts of trying to hurry them up. This was the South after all and those thoughts passed. With my grease stained bag'o chicken stuffed into the saddle bag I was off to TWO.
There is no easy way to get to TWO. From the south, you come up through Dahlonega on US 19 and then up through Woody Gap on GA 60. This is the tamest route, but it still requires a bit of work. From the North or West you have to tackle 20 some miles of beautifully paved road that keeps dishing out complex turn after turn as it heads up the mountain. From the East the best way is to ride across GA 180. It's called 180 for a reason. This road doesn't quit. You have to pay complete attention because the road comes up with one more turn after another. The road just keeps turning and turning until it drops you off at TWO's front door.
The sun was just setting as I pulled in to TWO. There didn't seem to be anyone around, but that didn't matter. I picked a good spot for my tent and set up camp. This was the first night of my trip that I was camping. It was either too cold, or I was too tired to during the previous week. I was looking forward to a night in the tent. By the time I finished putting up the tent it was dark. I ate my chicken and was glad that I had stopped for it. I was in no mood to go back down the mountain in search of food. It was a cool night. Just right for sleeping in an un-zipped sleeping bag. 373 Miles.
I woke up Sunday morning just in time for breakfast. When you come in to the lodge building at TWO for breakfast Frank Cheek, the proprietor (and Pilot In Command) will ask you, "Do you want breakfast?" To which you have the option of answering "Yes" or "No." If you say yes, you get what ever Frank is making that morning, usually French toast or eggs with sausage or something. If you say "No," you can still buy yourself a cup of coffee, but no food. There isn't any in-between. I said "Yes."
I spent most of the day Sunday sitting on the porch, watching the G00f2, 900RR and FZR crowd come and go. After nine days on the road, I was glad just to sit around and watch the motorcycles rather than be one. At lunch time I gathered enough strength to join one of my fellow porch sitters on a quest across GA 180 for barbecue. It was a nice run across 180. I had a chance to re-aquatint myself with all of the curves as we headed east.
After a large plate of barbecued brisket, my lunch-mate headed back home to Atlanta. I headed back for GA 180 and TWO. Two thirds of the way across 180 I ran into a terrific rain storm. It blew up from nowhere, I was drenched. Just as quickly as it started, I ran out of it. I was pretty dry by the time I got back to TWO. The folks there hadn't seen a thing. I engaged in more porch sitting for the afternoon, nothing like good conversation and the threat of rain to keep me off the bike. That evening I rode down the mountain to Dahlonega and had supper in a nice Italian restaurant just off the square. On my way back I got caught behind a slow moving car. It had every right to be slow moving, the speed limit was only 40. I was just about to pass when I 'checked 6'. A Lumpkin County Sheriff was the next car behind me. During the summer the county stepped up enforcement of the speed limit for two wheeled vehicles. He followed me carefully for the next 3 miles making sure that this Yankee motorcycle did not infract any of the traffic laws of Lumpkin County. I turned onto GA 60 without incident and headed back to my tent. 87 Miles
Monday dawned clear and just a bit cool. Once again I stumbled out of my tent and into the lodge. I gave Frank an "Affirmative," when he questioned my interest in breakfast. T.W.O's guest list had diminished substantially. All of the weekend crowd had left and only about half a dozen serious vacationers were left. At breakfast those of us remaining talked about what we were planning to do that day. Most of the group wanted to go up to Deal's gap, but I was planning on doing that on my way out on Tuesday. That left Erroll and me to our own devices. Erroll had come up from Florida for a few days on an old R 90/ something.
As we were finishing breakfast I asked Frank Cheek "So where should we go today?" "Have you been down by the Georgia Power office and Lake Rabun?", he asked. "No," I said, "what's down there?" "Crooked roads," was his reply. That's all I needed to hear. "Sound good to me. Erroll?" Erroll agreed, but I wasn't sure that he knew what he was getting himself into. Frank pulled a pink Xeroxed map from behind the counter in the kitchen and began the briefing. I had been over some of the roads before and had a pretty good feeling where the ones that I didn't know were. So we were off. I was in the lead. The route had us traverse GA 180 over Lake Winfield Scott and Vogel State Park. 180 is a road that only gets better each time you run it. We turned onto US 129 and went north a few miles to pick up GA 180 again. After about a mile we turned right onto the Richard Russell Scenic Highway. Richard Russell is about 14 miles of the prettiest road around. Yes, it goes up and down and around, but not as tightly as some of the roads in the area. It does offer some spectacular views of the Chattahoochee National Forest.
From Richard Russell, we managed to skirt around Helen, GA. Helen is a pseudo-Swiss tourist town that I prefer to miss. Then across GA 356. Left on GA 197, up three miles and right at the Brooks General Store. It was this road that Frank said I'd love. We turned onto it. The first few miles were uninspiring, I was beginning to wonder what Frank had in mind when he sent us this way. I was also wondering if I had missed the turn and was heading off in the wrong direction. "Not likely," I thought. Just then we passed the Georgia Power office. I knew we were on the right track. After about another half mile, a lake appeared to our right and the road began to tighten up against it. Now I knew why Frank sent us down this way. The road got narrow and began to writhe back and forth with short jerks combined with small changes in elevation and camber. All I had was a two-bike length view ahead, because of the crinkles in the road. All of my rider training kicked in. Look through the turn. Set entry speed. Lean. Powerout. Again, and again I just talked my way through the turns. It was hard work, but great riding. The road finally came to an end. That was OK with me. I needed a rest. I waited for a moment for Erroll to get to the stop sign. We took a minute to let our inner ears settle down and then turned left onto old US 441.
From there we went through Tiger, GA. Tiger seemed caught back in the year when the highway department decided to run the new road a few miles to the east. Frank's instructions then directed us into Clayton to pick up Warwoman Rd. It was a good road to ride, but I think he put this road into this route just because of its name. At the end of Warwoman Road we turned onto GA 28 and headed toward Highlands, North Carolina. This road dished out its own set of twisties, not as tightly as before but quite entertaining. In Highlands we stopped for lunch. Over lunch Erroll told me about his work at a buy-here pay-here motorcycle shop, selling basic transportation to folks for low monthly (or weekly) payments. We discussed the need to occasionally recover those bikes when the low monthly payments stopped coming. As we finished our turkey sandwiches we decided that we would take the easy way home. Erroll had experienced enough twisty roads for one day.
We began the trip back to TWO on North Carolina 106, which connects with GA 246 and then on to US 441 toward Clayton. From Clayton we got on US 76 and headed toward Hiawassee. On the way to Hiawassee I remembered Brasstown Bald. It's the highest point in Georgia. There's a nice park and observation tower at the top and a nicely paved twisty road that goes up to it. At a stoplight I explained my plan to Erroll and he agreed. He wasn't in any rush to go anywhere. Along 76 we fell in behind a van from a local exterminator. He was cooking though the turns at a high rate of speed, we followed for a while, but he lost us when he passed a few slower moving cars in a blind turn. A bit before Hiawassee we turned south on GA 75. About this time my turkey sandwich began to look for a quick way out. There must have been something special about how they handled their food at the sandwich shop in Highlands. There was nothing but woods, and I wasn't desperate enough to make like a bear, so I did the only thing I could. I twisted the throttle. In no time I was barreling up the side of the mountain toward Brasstown Bald. After a few minutes in the 'comfort station', I was ready to ascend the last bit to the lofty 4,784 foot heights. Just about then the shuttle van pulled up. Erroll looks at me and says, "What do you think?" I say, "Ya, I guess." So we piled in the van along with a couple of nice silver haired ladies.
It was quite a clear day and the guide at the top pointed out that you could see far into Tennessee and North Carolina. We also got a bit of a geography lesson about the names a history of the different mountains in the area. With that, and another walk around the deck it was time to head down. Conveniently the shuttle van presented itself just as we were ready to leave. We jumped in. The pace down the mountain was a bit less frantic. I was more concerned with dodging on coming traffic this time. It was still light and we weren't quite ready to go home. I decided to turn down a little side road. The road looked like it was going to go somewhere and Wolf Pen Road just sounded interesting. The road curved along the edge of a cove in the mountains. There was a wide meadow off to the left and homes and the edge of the mountain on the right. As we came around a corner I saw a drilling rig drilling a well about 300 feet ahead. The rig was sticking about half way into the road and there was a river of tan mud covering the road. "That's drilling mud," I thought to myself. "I should slow down." I did. I slowed down, but that wasn't enough. I felt the bike go sideways to the right and then to the left and then to the right again. I managed not to lose it. The bike straightened up and I put my feet down and caught my breath. Erroll had enough sense to be far enough behind to see what was happening. He just stopped before the mud slick and paddled though.
The only problem with TWO is that you can't go out for supper without riding about 15 miles of twisty roads each way. As we waited to cross US 129 Erroll said "dinner?" We talked back and forth for a minute and decided that we weren't quite hungry now, but we knew that we didn't want to ride those 30 miles to food and back. We ended up heading into Blairsville for chicken. We bungied the Colonel's finest on to the back of our bikes and headed back to camp for an evening of campfire, lies and chicken. 240 Miles.
After anther one of Frank's breakfasts, it didn't take much prodding by the six of us there to get Frank to take us out on the "Blood Mountain Run". No, this isn't some kind of ritual initiation where someone pulls out a dagger and opens one of your veins. It is a rather brisk circumnavigation of Blood Mountain that sits in TWO's front yard. As we got ready to leave, Frank briefed us. "Now once we get onto US129, I'm going to use all of the road," he said, "US119 has 2 lanes of traffic going in our direction and I'm going to use them." So we were off down the mountain on GA60 to US 19. Frank was in good form on his Voyager leading the pack. We followed behind working hard to keep up as Frank rode through familiar turns. We turned left onto US129 and the road opened up into two lanes. Frank opened it up as well, knowingly setting up and taking the curves in the road, crossing through the lanes to take the best line around. As we worked through the turns I thought, "This is just like following Reg Pridmore around the track at Watkins." Frank was taking just the right line through every turn. We stopped for a few minutes where US129 crosses the Appalachian Trail. There is an outfitter's store there and we went in to look around. After a few minutes we gathered outside by the bikes and Frank presented us each with Blood Mountain patches. We take a second to admire them and get back on our machines. A left turn on GA180 and we head for home.
Back at T.W.O. Frank made lunch (not a usual occurrence) and the group of us talked about what we wanted to do for the afternoon. I had originally planned to head up to Deal's gap for the afternoon, but as we ate Frank offered to sketch out a new rout that he had been thinking about. For about two seconds I thought, "New roads or Deal's Gap." The group was interested in following Frank's roads and Frank had never disappointed me, so I opted for Frank's roads. I figured that I might have enough time at the end of the day to take at least one pass through the Gap. I didn't want to spend the time coming back up the mountain to load up the bike after the run, so I snapped on the Givi's and loaded up the camping gear. I would head out after we finished the loop that Frank had set out, but before coming back up GA60.
Frank didn't have an official map made up yet, in fact we were the first lab rats to be sent through this particular maze. He told us what roads to take, where to turn and what to look for. We took notes and decided that we could figure out where we were going. Then we were off. Even after many protests, I ended up in the lead. The route ran us up into North Carolina and covered 100 miles of great twisty roads that I hadn't seen before. The ride was uneventful except for the time when I moved to pass a slow moving cement truck and the truck tried to run me off the road. Just as I was passing him, he began moving to the left trying to squeeze me off of he road. I got by, gave a single digit salute and continued on, hopping the rest of the group would make it by without any damage. We finished the loop at about 4 PM. I peeled off and the group headed back to T.W.O.
As I crossed the intersection of US129 I thought for a bit and decided not to go up to Deal's Gap. The sun was getting a bit low in the sky and I had done lots of twisty roads that day. I stayed on US74 and worked my way along the southern edge of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park toward Ashville. It was dusk when I got to Ashville, I was tired so I got onto I40 and headed for Marion. It was about 8 o'clock by the time I checked in to the non-descript budget motel in Marion. I was tired. 281 Miles
Marion is on the edge of the Appalachians. Go east a bit and you're in the flat Piedmont. North or West and you're back in the mountains. The plan for the day was to ride up and down the roads that criss-crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway and be at my friend Jeff's house for dinner. I headed north on NC80. It twisted its way up to the parkway and then twisted its way back down the other side. I had heard it was worth riding and wasn't disappointed. For the rest of the morning I twisted up, along, down and up again across the Blue Ridge. The only problem was that when I stopped for lunch I realized that I hadn't made much northward progress. After lunch a decided to hunker down and ride, so I got onto the parkway and just rode. I dropped off of the parkway onto US221. It was good riding and I was able to get into Harrisonburg at about six.
I met Jeff at his office and he said, "Just follow me home, by the way the road up to the house is a bit rough." "How rough?" I asked. "Not too bad," he said. So I followed him out to Rawly Springs. It was dark by the time we turned off the highway. We went along for a mile or so on a country road then turned off onto a road with a 'Dead End' sign at the entrance. It was pitch black and I could see the deep rut ahead of me. I followed Jeff's pickup as it bounced down the road over huge (as far as I was concerned) stones. After what seemed like miles the truck ahead just stopped and Jeff got out. "We're there," he said. I just sat on the bike for a minute let my death grip on the bars loosen. "There isn't a person between here and West Virginia," Jeff continued, "just the George Washington National Forest." I relaxed and began to look around. I saw a nice sized cabin set into the side of the mountain. We went inside. After dinner I went outside to take a look around. The only thing around was trees. No sign of other people, just quiet, trees and stars. 389 Miles.
I had to get a six AM start Thursday morning because I wanted Jeff to be around as I negotiated the rock strewn road leading down from the cabin. It was worse going down hill. First I could see what was ahead, second because the road was a little steep I had to use the brakes. It took about half an hour, but I survived the mile and a half without any damage to me or the FJ. Once I got to the paved road Jeff sped off and I spent a minute getting myself together. I rode for an hour or so and stopped for breakfast. I was in familiar territory in Northern Virginia and was ready to head home. I had just spent two weeks on some of the greatest roads in the country, but I was ready to go home. I came up on an interchange of I81 got on and headed north. For the rest of the afternoon I counted off the familiar landmarks through Haggerstown, Harrisburg, Roadside America and the copper tanks of the Stroh Brewery near Allentown. Then across the Delaware, through the tolls at Exit 14 and toward the Holland Tunnel. As the Turnpike curved to reveal the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline I knew that I was back home. I rolled the bike into the garage. It was almost like coming back from a day riding around, but not quite. I opened the door to my apartment, to see everything in its place and was greeted by an angry cat. "Where have you been?" she meeyowled. I brought my gear in and took a nap on the couch.