Monday, October 28, 2013
Saturday, October 26, 2013
JFK Assassination at 50: Five Myths About Jackie Kennedy
As we approach the 50th Anniversary of the assasination of President John F. Kennedy, I will write a series of posts about JFK, the time in which he lived, the people who surrounded him, and of course the assassination itself. Some will be my own ideas, thoughts and recollections. Some will be those of others. Some will be a combination. I will try to delineate between them.
I'll start with this. Jacqueline Kennedy ranks with Eleanor Roosevelt and Hilary Clinton as the most influential First Ladies ever, but for far different reasons. Unlike Mrs. Roosevelt and Mrs. Clinton, who seemed more like political advisers and business partners, Mrs. Kennedy deflected any suggestion that she was a political adviser to her husband.
But she was - particularly on personnel matters.
At only age 31 she became First Lady. Over the next three years, Jackie Kennedy's charm, grace and style captured the imagination and hearts not only of a nation, but also of world leaders. So much so that JFK referred to himself as "the man who accompanied Mrs. Kennedy to France."
The Washington Post recently put together a fascinating short article about five myths about Jacquelin Kennedy. This article offers a glimpse of the remarkable young woman who captured the nation.
Here is a link to the article: CLICK HERE
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Motorcycle Trip - Day 6: There and Back Again -- The Journey Home
Day 6: Tuesday, September 3.
Waking in Cumberland, Maryland on Day 6 was different. The Tail of the Dragon, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Skyline Drive -- all were in our rear view mirror. Ahead was only one objective -- home.
Weather reports showed there was heavy morning fog around Morgantown, WV. My riding companion Steve Winters and I loaded up, then decided to take a liesurly breakfast at Bob Evans to give the fog time to clear.
One last cup of coffee, then we headed out. Ahead of us was 460 miles and home.
When riding, I don't relish Interstate travel. I don't thing any rider does. The pavement stretches out in long straight lines with uninteresting bends. All the while you contend with the buffeting from wind off heavy truck traffic and drivers distracted to inattention by the radio, and cell phones, and simply the miles rolling by in the comforting cocoon of a modern car.
But riding through the interstate in western Maryland, West Virginia and southwestern Pennsylvania is different. It is as beautiful a stretch of Interstate riding as exists in the country. The road unwinds in curves that lay gently across the hills, mountains, and valleys, opening up grand vistas of natural beauty.
As we headed toward Morgantown, the clouds hung heavy and gray, resting close to the mountain tops. The coolness of the day swept past us. As we headed north out of Morgantown and into Pennsylvania, the clouds dissipated and the sky turned a luminous blue.
That morning, riding with Steve in the lead, it was pure joy to be on a motorcycle.
South of Washington, PA we followed the commands of Steve's GPS, and cut off on S.R. 221. The two-lane blacktop rolled and twisted through picturesque Pennsylvania countryside. The passing landscape was dotted with well-kept century-old homes, Norman Rockwell-like farms and small towns from an America long past.
We picked up I-70 just east of the West Virginia border. We rode the short 12 miles through West Virginia, bypassing the famed Wheeling Tunnel for the less dramatic but safer route around the town. At about 1 p.m we crossed the Ohio River, shining in the sun as it had six days earlier when we crossed the river at Madison, IN rolling into Kentucky, the entire trip still in front of us.
Ohio. I-70. What lay ahead was a 220-mile stretch of mostly flat straight-line riding at 75 mph. The ride was no longer about fun and adventure. It was about getting there. About getting home.
Near Zanesville we stopped at a Denny's Diner for lunch. After six days of being together on the road, it was our last meal together.
We finished eating, topping off the meal by splitting a celebratory forbidden peanut butter milkshake. As the waitress cleared the table, Steve got serious.
He thanked me for taking the trip with him, knowing I had last minute family matters that pulled on me to cancel. Steve talked about how when he was a boy, his family traveled to the Smokies to camp. It was then he formed his dream of traveling the Blue Ridge Parkway. Later he added traveling by motorcycle. It had been his dream for more than 40 years, maybe more than 50.
But now at age 68, Steve knew the realities. "I'll never take this trip again," he said to me.
I asked if the trip lived up to his dream. Steve gave that infectious smile with his whole face. He didn't hesitate. "It was better than I ever imagined."
With that, we got back on our bikes and we were off through the flat tedium of Ohio. Two hours later we were, as the song says, back home again in Indiana.
At the U.S. 35 exit in Richmond, we made our final stop. We chatted for a few minutes about exchanging photos and GoPro videos from the trip. We made plans to get together for dinner, which we did the following weekend. We reflected for a couple of minutes, but not long. The sun was setting. It was time to get home.
We shook hands firmly with the true affection of two men who had shared something very special. Then we fired up the engines and headed off into the coolness of the approaching evening, heading our separate directions.
Less than an hour later, I was home. The journey was done. 1,763 miles. Nine states. 628 photos. Fog, rain, heat, and one bear. And memories. So many memories.
None of us know what the future holds. Steve fulfilled his 40-year dream, but less than three weeks later a motorcycle crash would take his life. He was unaware that pancreatic cancer had already ravaged his body, though statements Steve made to me, his wife and his friends seemed to hint at an awareness that he did not have long with us. The cancer would have taken him within months had the accident not intervened. Somehow, I think Steve would have preferred the way it happened.
As for me, I have no crystal ball. I don't know where the future will take me -- how far or for how long. But I know it will be on some twisting, winding back road, a camera in my saddlebag and a notebook in my pocket, the compass in my head pointing north.
It will be on two wheels.
I will miss having Steve riding there with me.
Oh who will come and go with me?
I am on my journey home.
I’m bound fair Canaan’s land to see,
I am on my journey home.
-- Traditional Appalachian Hymn
Waking in Cumberland, Maryland on Day 6 was different. The Tail of the Dragon, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Skyline Drive -- all were in our rear view mirror. Ahead was only one objective -- home.
Weather reports showed there was heavy morning fog around Morgantown, WV. My riding companion Steve Winters and I loaded up, then decided to take a liesurly breakfast at Bob Evans to give the fog time to clear.
One last cup of coffee, then we headed out. Ahead of us was 460 miles and home.
When riding, I don't relish Interstate travel. I don't thing any rider does. The pavement stretches out in long straight lines with uninteresting bends. All the while you contend with the buffeting from wind off heavy truck traffic and drivers distracted to inattention by the radio, and cell phones, and simply the miles rolling by in the comforting cocoon of a modern car.
But riding through the interstate in western Maryland, West Virginia and southwestern Pennsylvania is different. It is as beautiful a stretch of Interstate riding as exists in the country. The road unwinds in curves that lay gently across the hills, mountains, and valleys, opening up grand vistas of natural beauty.
As we headed toward Morgantown, the clouds hung heavy and gray, resting close to the mountain tops. The coolness of the day swept past us. As we headed north out of Morgantown and into Pennsylvania, the clouds dissipated and the sky turned a luminous blue.
That morning, riding with Steve in the lead, it was pure joy to be on a motorcycle.
South of Washington, PA we followed the commands of Steve's GPS, and cut off on S.R. 221. The two-lane blacktop rolled and twisted through picturesque Pennsylvania countryside. The passing landscape was dotted with well-kept century-old homes, Norman Rockwell-like farms and small towns from an America long past.
We picked up I-70 just east of the West Virginia border. We rode the short 12 miles through West Virginia, bypassing the famed Wheeling Tunnel for the less dramatic but safer route around the town. At about 1 p.m we crossed the Ohio River, shining in the sun as it had six days earlier when we crossed the river at Madison, IN rolling into Kentucky, the entire trip still in front of us.
Ohio. I-70. What lay ahead was a 220-mile stretch of mostly flat straight-line riding at 75 mph. The ride was no longer about fun and adventure. It was about getting there. About getting home.
Near Zanesville we stopped at a Denny's Diner for lunch. After six days of being together on the road, it was our last meal together.
We finished eating, topping off the meal by splitting a celebratory forbidden peanut butter milkshake. As the waitress cleared the table, Steve got serious.
 |
| Steve Winters on the Skyline Drive |
But now at age 68, Steve knew the realities. "I'll never take this trip again," he said to me.
I asked if the trip lived up to his dream. Steve gave that infectious smile with his whole face. He didn't hesitate. "It was better than I ever imagined."
With that, we got back on our bikes and we were off through the flat tedium of Ohio. Two hours later we were, as the song says, back home again in Indiana.
At the U.S. 35 exit in Richmond, we made our final stop. We chatted for a few minutes about exchanging photos and GoPro videos from the trip. We made plans to get together for dinner, which we did the following weekend. We reflected for a couple of minutes, but not long. The sun was setting. It was time to get home.
We shook hands firmly with the true affection of two men who had shared something very special. Then we fired up the engines and headed off into the coolness of the approaching evening, heading our separate directions.
Less than an hour later, I was home. The journey was done. 1,763 miles. Nine states. 628 photos. Fog, rain, heat, and one bear. And memories. So many memories.
None of us know what the future holds. Steve fulfilled his 40-year dream, but less than three weeks later a motorcycle crash would take his life. He was unaware that pancreatic cancer had already ravaged his body, though statements Steve made to me, his wife and his friends seemed to hint at an awareness that he did not have long with us. The cancer would have taken him within months had the accident not intervened. Somehow, I think Steve would have preferred the way it happened.
As for me, I have no crystal ball. I don't know where the future will take me -- how far or for how long. But I know it will be on some twisting, winding back road, a camera in my saddlebag and a notebook in my pocket, the compass in my head pointing north.
It will be on two wheels.
I will miss having Steve riding there with me.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Motorcycle Trip - Day 5: End of the Parkway & Skyline Drive
Day 5 - September 2: Labor Day -- The End of the Parkway and the Skyline Drive
The driving rain from the previous night had cleared and the fifth day of our journey - Labor Day - broke in Bedford, Virginia with brilliant sunshine.
My riding companion Steve Winters and I loaded our bikes up with a mixture of excitement and just a tinge of sadness. Excitement in that we knew this was the day we would complete all 469 miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway and ride the entire 105 miles of the Skyline Drive. But there was also the reality that this day marked the real end of the adventure. By days end, we will have completed the ride that Steve had dreamed about for more than 40 years.
Tomorrow it would be the day after Christmas.
Looking for a McDonalds or some similar fast food place for breakfast, we stumbled on a Huddle House restaurant. The waitresses were pure southern charm, and the food was much better than we expected. We ate omelets and shared a pecan waffle (sugar free syrup). Then it was off to find our way back to the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Steve was directionally challenged, something he readily admitted. He was largely dependent upon the feminine voice in his ear from his GPS unit. And although he complained about it vigorously, he relied on it for getting him almost anyplace.
On the other hand, I abhor GPS units. Thanks to my mother and dad, I have an inherent sense of direction. I have a built in compass that points north without fail. I may take a quick look at a map -- I did so twice on the entire 1,763 miles of our trip - but my usual practice is to figure out where I am, where I am going, and point the bike in that general direction. If I'm going northwest, I'll ride for a while going north, then find a road headed west. And I end up where I was going - without fail.
With some vague directions from the waitress and cooks at the Huddle House ("You go down to the four lane, then when you get to a big yeller house, you turn right, till you cross the crick, then you go left . . . "), we headed with me in the lead to find our way the 20 miles or so to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Because heading back the way we came would result in us backtracking some 20 miles, we headed north.
Bedford is a gorgeous old south town with stately homes and quiet streets. We passed a few people out for early morning walks or jobs. Some waived. Then we were into the rolling rural countryside, heading north toward the Peaks of Otter and the Blue Ridge Parkway.
On our trip we had dealt with heat, fog, and rain, but this last morning was perfection. We rode through the morning coolness, gradually rising toward the mountains. At Peaks of Otter, we reentered the Parkway. It was the place where I camped on my previous motorcycle trip to the Parkway two years earlier. It was comforting to recognize the area - to see something familiar after so many days on road that was all new.
Eighty-five miles left.
The Parkway was splendid in its early morning coat. Ghosts of thin fog floated across stretches of the road, punctuated by bright shafts of sunlight cutting through the tall oaks, hickory, ash and occasional pines. Wildflowers in yellow and purple carpeted the roadside. In places the towering trees formed a canopy over the pavement, still dark and damp from condensation left behind by morning fog.
At an overlook we stopped and looked out over the valley below, taking it in. There was a sense of trying to absorb all of this. Steve was candid about this on our way home. He was certain this was his last time on a motorcycle on these roads. We did not know how prophetic that was.
As the sun rose higher, the fog disappeared and we were left with a glorious late summer day, just cool enough in the mountains for perfect motorcycle riding.
As we started the last 10 miles of the Parkway, I pointed out the mileposts to Steve. There was a strong sense of accomplishment as we moved through those last miles -- 10, then 7, then 4, then 2, then finally the last mile marker. And the end. Just after noon, we finished the Parkway.
Somehow I expected there to be a "Congratulations! You've Just Ridden the Blue Ridge Parkway" sign. But there wasn't. In fact, there wasn't even a sign saying "End of Blue Ridge Parkway." Instead, the road just continued, crossing an overpass above a 4-lane highway, then a sign: "You Are Entering Shenandoah National Park" with the entry fee schedule.
No trumpets. No banners. Nothing. But we had done it. We had ridden 469 miles from the Great Smokey Mountains National Park to the Shenandoah National Park.
We stopped for gas and lunch. We talked a bit, but not really about accomplishing the ride of the Blue Ridge Parkway. There were still too many miles in front of us.
Back on our bikes, we started the Skyline Drive. The Skyline Drive is the road that runs through the center of Shenandoah National Park, twisting and turning 105 miles along the top of the Shenandoah Mountains.
Unlike stretches of the Blue Ridge Parkway which were at times nearly deserted, the Skyline Drive is a favorite holiday destination for the metropolitan Washington D.C. area. Throughout the Skyline Drive, traffic was moderate to heavy. Overlooks that on the Blue Ridge Parkway would seldom have more than one car - and often none - were filled with half a dozen or more cars.
But the views from the Skyline Drive are simply awe-inspiring. To the west is the Shenandoah Valley, stretching as far as one can see. To the east is Virginia's rich Piedmont area, filled with farms and small towns. The view painted with shades of green,marked by streams and weaving pavement, accented with the shadows from billowing white clouds gently moving across the sky like a fleet of durigibles.
At one overlook we met a young couple from Pennsylvania spending the day on the Skyline Drive. He was a trucker, but no longer. He decided the long days on the road were not what he wanted for his life. I pulled out my camera and took a few photos. I was ready to put the camera away when he suggested I take one more - of them kissing with the Shenandoah Valley as the backdrop.
We also met an older couple - at least in their mid-70s. They were from Colorado, riding their motorcycle on a 4-week trip through the east, riding roads they had heard about but never traveled before. Steve and I talked to them for perhaps 20 minutes, talking and looking out over the beauty of the valley below.
The woman particularly was a delight. With an impish smile, she explained how they had gotten packing and traveling by motorcycle down to a science. "I don't have to travel with all the stuff I used to. And he says he
doesn't mind seeing me in the same clothes," she said. "As long as I
have my rain suit, I'm good to go." They had enough to go seven days between stops at local laundromats -- two pair of jeans, underwear and shirts for seven days -- and no makeup bag.
Souvenirs? Yes, they buy them, mostly for their grandchildren. But they don't travel with them. They just ship them home.
The one thing I can't explain is why I didn't get a photo of them. I took over 650 photos on the trip , but I didn't get one of them. It's my one regret from the trip.
Steve and I stopped at Big Meadow for a while. We took in the vast expanse of the tall grasses and scrub bushes that cover the meadow, but we passed on hiking. There were still too many miles to go.
We rode the final 50 miles of the Skyline Drive, stopping at occasional overlooks to take in the view, knowing these would be the last overlooks of our trip. Shortly after 5 pm we exited the Skyline Drive to the town of Front Royal. It was done. The Tail of the Dragon, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Skyline Drive. They were all behind us.
All that was left was the trip home.
We got our bearings in Front Royal, and headed home. We headed out toward Cumberland, Maryland, mostly riding 4-lane highways and I-68. We chased the setting sun through the indescribable beauty of the hills northern Virginia and Western Maryland. Green mountains opened into vast valleys, then rolled into mountains again.
As we rode, the sun setting in our visors, the mountains turned deep purple. With dark coming quickly upon us, we stopped at a Best Western in Cumberland. A nearby Pizza Hut was good for a late dinner. The food was slow in coming, but neither Steve nor I minded. It gave us time to talk. To reflect on what we had done. And to celebrate with a couple of beers.
The candor of Autumn, the young waitress serving us, made the experience worthwhile. "The salad bar is crap," she said in response to my inquiry. "I wouldn't pay for it. I don't eat it, and I get it free."
Steve and I both laughed, and gave her a bit extra with her tip.
It was over - but not quite. Left in front of us was the road home.
The driving rain from the previous night had cleared and the fifth day of our journey - Labor Day - broke in Bedford, Virginia with brilliant sunshine.
 |
| Wisps of fog; starting final day on Blue Ridge Parkway |
Tomorrow it would be the day after Christmas.
Looking for a McDonalds or some similar fast food place for breakfast, we stumbled on a Huddle House restaurant. The waitresses were pure southern charm, and the food was much better than we expected. We ate omelets and shared a pecan waffle (sugar free syrup). Then it was off to find our way back to the Blue Ridge Parkway.
 |
| Overlook near end of Blue Ridge Parkway |
Steve was directionally challenged, something he readily admitted. He was largely dependent upon the feminine voice in his ear from his GPS unit. And although he complained about it vigorously, he relied on it for getting him almost anyplace.
On the other hand, I abhor GPS units. Thanks to my mother and dad, I have an inherent sense of direction. I have a built in compass that points north without fail. I may take a quick look at a map -- I did so twice on the entire 1,763 miles of our trip - but my usual practice is to figure out where I am, where I am going, and point the bike in that general direction. If I'm going northwest, I'll ride for a while going north, then find a road headed west. And I end up where I was going - without fail.
With some vague directions from the waitress and cooks at the Huddle House ("You go down to the four lane, then when you get to a big yeller house, you turn right, till you cross the crick, then you go left . . . "), we headed with me in the lead to find our way the 20 miles or so to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Because heading back the way we came would result in us backtracking some 20 miles, we headed north.
Bedford is a gorgeous old south town with stately homes and quiet streets. We passed a few people out for early morning walks or jobs. Some waived. Then we were into the rolling rural countryside, heading north toward the Peaks of Otter and the Blue Ridge Parkway.
 |
| Wildflowers along Parkway |
Eighty-five miles left.
At an overlook we stopped and looked out over the valley below, taking it in. There was a sense of trying to absorb all of this. Steve was candid about this on our way home. He was certain this was his last time on a motorcycle on these roads. We did not know how prophetic that was.
 |
| Steve Winters (right) & Me, Skyline Drive |
As the sun rose higher, the fog disappeared and we were left with a glorious late summer day, just cool enough in the mountains for perfect motorcycle riding.
As we started the last 10 miles of the Parkway, I pointed out the mileposts to Steve. There was a strong sense of accomplishment as we moved through those last miles -- 10, then 7, then 4, then 2, then finally the last mile marker. And the end. Just after noon, we finished the Parkway.
Somehow I expected there to be a "Congratulations! You've Just Ridden the Blue Ridge Parkway" sign. But there wasn't. In fact, there wasn't even a sign saying "End of Blue Ridge Parkway." Instead, the road just continued, crossing an overpass above a 4-lane highway, then a sign: "You Are Entering Shenandoah National Park" with the entry fee schedule.
No trumpets. No banners. Nothing. But we had done it. We had ridden 469 miles from the Great Smokey Mountains National Park to the Shenandoah National Park.
We stopped for gas and lunch. We talked a bit, but not really about accomplishing the ride of the Blue Ridge Parkway. There were still too many miles in front of us.
Back on our bikes, we started the Skyline Drive. The Skyline Drive is the road that runs through the center of Shenandoah National Park, twisting and turning 105 miles along the top of the Shenandoah Mountains.
 |
| Overlook, Skyline Drive |
But the views from the Skyline Drive are simply awe-inspiring. To the west is the Shenandoah Valley, stretching as far as one can see. To the east is Virginia's rich Piedmont area, filled with farms and small towns. The view painted with shades of green,marked by streams and weaving pavement, accented with the shadows from billowing white clouds gently moving across the sky like a fleet of durigibles.
 |
| Me at overlook, Skyline Drive |
We also met an older couple - at least in their mid-70s. They were from Colorado, riding their motorcycle on a 4-week trip through the east, riding roads they had heard about but never traveled before. Steve and I talked to them for perhaps 20 minutes, talking and looking out over the beauty of the valley below.
 |
| Wildflowers & Piedmont, near end of Skyline Drive |
Souvenirs? Yes, they buy them, mostly for their grandchildren. But they don't travel with them. They just ship them home.
 |
| Busy bee, Big Meadow - Skyline Drive |
Steve and I stopped at Big Meadow for a while. We took in the vast expanse of the tall grasses and scrub bushes that cover the meadow, but we passed on hiking. There were still too many miles to go.
We rode the final 50 miles of the Skyline Drive, stopping at occasional overlooks to take in the view, knowing these would be the last overlooks of our trip. Shortly after 5 pm we exited the Skyline Drive to the town of Front Royal. It was done. The Tail of the Dragon, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Skyline Drive. They were all behind us.
 |
| End of the road. Last tunnel, Skyline Drive |
All that was left was the trip home.
We got our bearings in Front Royal, and headed home. We headed out toward Cumberland, Maryland, mostly riding 4-lane highways and I-68. We chased the setting sun through the indescribable beauty of the hills northern Virginia and Western Maryland. Green mountains opened into vast valleys, then rolled into mountains again.
As we rode, the sun setting in our visors, the mountains turned deep purple. With dark coming quickly upon us, we stopped at a Best Western in Cumberland. A nearby Pizza Hut was good for a late dinner. The food was slow in coming, but neither Steve nor I minded. It gave us time to talk. To reflect on what we had done. And to celebrate with a couple of beers.
 |
| Why we ride: Steve Winters on Skyline Drive |
The candor of Autumn, the young waitress serving us, made the experience worthwhile. "The salad bar is crap," she said in response to my inquiry. "I wouldn't pay for it. I don't eat it, and I get it free."
Steve and I both laughed, and gave her a bit extra with her tip.
It was over - but not quite. Left in front of us was the road home.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Motorcycle Trip - Day 4: Rolling Hills and Waterfalls
Day 4 - Sunday, September 1
Day 4 on my motorcycle journey was a day of transition.
Transition from the fog and rain to sun. Transition from the mountain overlooks of North Carolina to the rolling hills of central Virginia. Transition from the excitement and intensity of fog, rain and the bear, to relaxed riding through the Virginia countryside.
The day started with bright sunshine. My riding companion Steve Winters and I rode at a steady relaxed pace. The roadside was dotted with bright yellow wildflowers with purple flowers popping up here and there for contrast.
About 30 miles into the day's ride, we stopped at a waterfall. I had missed the spots for two other waterfalls that were easily accessible from the road, and this was one of our last opportunities without having to take an extensive hike.
We took the short walk -- about 10 minutes down and 20 minutes back up - hiking along a clearly defined trail that cut among giant rhododendrons and hard wood trees. We found the small creek that fed into a plunging waterfall. It was larger than I expected.
We sat and listened, and watched the water cascade across a granite face. I studied butterflies flittering on the nearby wildflowers, and spent time capturing close up photos of their search for nectar.
A path led toward the base of the falls. Steve told me he was fine if I hiked to the bottom, but that he would wait at the top. But considering the time and effort to hike to the bottom, and the ride in front of us, I deferred. We hiked along a creek back up to the parking area, and were back on the road.
The Mabry Mill is the most photographed location on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It is located about 80 miles south of Roanoke. It is a functioning mill with a picturesque wooden wheel constantly turning, powered by water from the nearby creek.
It is also the site of the only restaurant on the Parkway, and one of only three commercial establishments. The other two are the inns at Mt. Pisgah and Peaks of Otter. It is also the busiest place on the Parkway, particularly at meal time on Sunday.
We put our names in for the hour-plus wait, then strolled around the grounds. Under a shelter a trio of banjo, guitar and fiddle were playing mountain music. Maybe a hundred people were gathered around sitting on picnic tables, or just standing and chatting.
An elderly woman who was in her 70s, if not older, took to the wood that had been stretched out on the grass for a make-shift dance floor. With joy that was evident, she "clogged," the mountain form of dancing not far removed from the Irish dancing of River Dance. A young girl joined her for a while, but after several minuted she tired out. But the older woman kept dancing. When we headed toward the restaurant, she was till dancing.
She might be dancing still.
Our timing was impeccable. Just as our names were called for a table a big thunderstorm cut loose. Steve and I sat at a window seat in the small restaurant, devouring maybe the best biscuits I have ever eaten, slathered with thick homemade blackberry jam. We ate a meal of pot roast, fried green tomatoes and sweet potato "tater tots."
Waiting for our food -- and more biscuits and jam -- our waitress filled us in on some practicalities of the Parkway. The Mabry Mill closed for the season at 6 p.m. on Halloween. There were some uncertainties about the future. The contract to operate the Mill was up this year. This time there was competition for the woman who had been operating the restaurant for a number of years. No one was certain what the future would hold after Halloween.
The reason for closing the Mill -- and the two inns on the Parkway -- is that the Park Service does not plow or salt the Parkway. There is no snow removal or treatment of ice and snow. The Park Service seeks to keep the area as natural as possible, and does not introduce salt and other chemicals to the environment. Rather, there are gates on the Parkway that divide the road into segments. In bad weather, those gates are shut and locked, and no traffic is allowed. And of course with the road locked, there is no access to the Mill or the inns.
By the time we were done with our meal and our lesson on the Parkway, the rain had passed.
We headed back out, and within three miles the pavement was dry. The Parkway eased through the rolling farmland of central Virginia, heading toward Roanoke. By the time we stopped in Roanoke for gas, dark clouds were hanging low over the mountains. Once again, on went the rain gear.
Back on the Parkway, we soon hit rain. We road the last 10 miles to our exit off the Parkway in a steady rain. We exited on S.R. 360, a four lane highway. The rain picked up and we road the next 20 miles in a heavy rain to Bedford, Virginia, where we would spend the night.
The rain stopped just before we got to the motel, so we did not have to unload in rain.
At the same time we arrived, a couple pulled up in their motorcycle pulling a trailer. They were in their 30s, from Seattle, traveling the country. It was never clear what they did in life other than ride their motorcycle.
Steve watched in fascination as the Washington couple unloaded their bike. They used a standard hotel cart. And filled it -- very bit of it -- from the contents of the trailer they were towing. It was a bit like watching a clown car at the circus. The more they pulled out and loaded onto the cart, the more there seemed to be left for them to load.
It was one of those small things - those moments of humor - that if you keep focused on yourself, you will miss.
We were tired. Neither of us wanted to get into our rain gear again, so we ordered pizza delivered to the motel. Ten minutes later the wisdom of our decision became apparent. A storm cut loose with powerful wind, lighting and a deluge of rain.
But Steve and I sat in my room, talking and eating pizza -- and finishing up the bourbon I had brought on the trip.
My hands ached and were swollen. I was tired. But it had been a good day.
The end of the Blue Ridge Parkway was in sight - 85 miles to go. The next day would see us finish the Parkway, ride the Skyline Drive and make the turn for home.
Day 4 on my motorcycle journey was a day of transition.
Transition from the fog and rain to sun. Transition from the mountain overlooks of North Carolina to the rolling hills of central Virginia. Transition from the excitement and intensity of fog, rain and the bear, to relaxed riding through the Virginia countryside.
 |
| Rolling hills along Parkway in central Virginia |
 |
| Waterfall just off Parkway |
About 30 miles into the day's ride, we stopped at a waterfall. I had missed the spots for two other waterfalls that were easily accessible from the road, and this was one of our last opportunities without having to take an extensive hike.
 |
| Rhododendron canopy |
We sat and listened, and watched the water cascade across a granite face. I studied butterflies flittering on the nearby wildflowers, and spent time capturing close up photos of their search for nectar.
The Mabry Mill is the most photographed location on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It is located about 80 miles south of Roanoke. It is a functioning mill with a picturesque wooden wheel constantly turning, powered by water from the nearby creek.
It is also the site of the only restaurant on the Parkway, and one of only three commercial establishments. The other two are the inns at Mt. Pisgah and Peaks of Otter. It is also the busiest place on the Parkway, particularly at meal time on Sunday.
 |
| Mountain music trio |
 |
| Clogger |
She might be dancing still.
Our timing was impeccable. Just as our names were called for a table a big thunderstorm cut loose. Steve and I sat at a window seat in the small restaurant, devouring maybe the best biscuits I have ever eaten, slathered with thick homemade blackberry jam. We ate a meal of pot roast, fried green tomatoes and sweet potato "tater tots."
 |
| Mabry Mill |
The reason for closing the Mill -- and the two inns on the Parkway -- is that the Park Service does not plow or salt the Parkway. There is no snow removal or treatment of ice and snow. The Park Service seeks to keep the area as natural as possible, and does not introduce salt and other chemicals to the environment. Rather, there are gates on the Parkway that divide the road into segments. In bad weather, those gates are shut and locked, and no traffic is allowed. And of course with the road locked, there is no access to the Mill or the inns.
By the time we were done with our meal and our lesson on the Parkway, the rain had passed.
We headed back out, and within three miles the pavement was dry. The Parkway eased through the rolling farmland of central Virginia, heading toward Roanoke. By the time we stopped in Roanoke for gas, dark clouds were hanging low over the mountains. Once again, on went the rain gear.
Back on the Parkway, we soon hit rain. We road the last 10 miles to our exit off the Parkway in a steady rain. We exited on S.R. 360, a four lane highway. The rain picked up and we road the next 20 miles in a heavy rain to Bedford, Virginia, where we would spend the night.
The rain stopped just before we got to the motel, so we did not have to unload in rain.
At the same time we arrived, a couple pulled up in their motorcycle pulling a trailer. They were in their 30s, from Seattle, traveling the country. It was never clear what they did in life other than ride their motorcycle.
Steve watched in fascination as the Washington couple unloaded their bike. They used a standard hotel cart. And filled it -- very bit of it -- from the contents of the trailer they were towing. It was a bit like watching a clown car at the circus. The more they pulled out and loaded onto the cart, the more there seemed to be left for them to load.
It was one of those small things - those moments of humor - that if you keep focused on yourself, you will miss.
We were tired. Neither of us wanted to get into our rain gear again, so we ordered pizza delivered to the motel. Ten minutes later the wisdom of our decision became apparent. A storm cut loose with powerful wind, lighting and a deluge of rain.
But Steve and I sat in my room, talking and eating pizza -- and finishing up the bourbon I had brought on the trip.
My hands ached and were swollen. I was tired. But it had been a good day.
The end of the Blue Ridge Parkway was in sight - 85 miles to go. The next day would see us finish the Parkway, ride the Skyline Drive and make the turn for home.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Motorcycle Trip - Day 3: A Day of Fog, Rain and the Bear
Day 3 - Saturday August 31
Fog and Rain
Day three started early for me -- very early.
The night was restless with my mind racing through thoughts and images from the previous day. My feet hurt. So did my hands, a product of long hours of engine vibrations transmitted through the handle grips. It was even hard to hold a pen to write in my journal.
But the benefit of waking long before dawn was the ability to look out the large windows in my room at the Mt. Pisgah Inn and watch dawn slowly take shape. Across the valley that stretched from horizon to horizon, were mountains - deep green-blue shapes set against the azure sky tinged with touches of pre-dawn pink. In the valley, fog nestled like so much soft freshly-shorn fleece.
I made coffee, then sat in a rocker on the balcony and watched the dawn appear. On my second cup of coffee - or maybe my third - a young family appeared at an overlook below my room. I called to them and went down to make to take a photo of the entire family. Someone passing by beat me to it, but I still talked with the family, hearing the story of their harrowing late-night trip through the fog to the Inn. Then the husband took a photo of me with the valley as a backdrop. Usually the photographer, there are actually few photos of me.
My riding companion Steve Winters and I met up for breakfast at the Inn's restaurant, then loaded the bikes. The forecast included possibility of rain over the next three days. But for now, it was a beautiful sunny day and the road was waiting.
Not many miles passed before the early morning promise gave way to clouds. Those clouds descended to just above the roadway (or were we rising in the elevation?). The road, still wet from early morning fog, was a deep shimmering black ribbon that cut through the lush green of the North Carolina forest seeming almost like a tropical rain forest. The green was deep and velvety rich, here and there accented with bright yellow wildflowers that dotted the roadside.
We rode into fog which quickly became even more dense than that we encountered the night before on the way to Mount Pisgah. We stopped at Craggy Gardens, a scenic highlight of the Parkway. But there was little to see except waves of fog whipping past the wind-shaped scrubby trees along the mountain top. The American flag, which at times disappeared in the fog, stood out straight on the flagpole in front of the ranger station.
Several groups of motorcycles, as well as a few cars, stopped. All of us were taking a break from the intensity of riding (or driving) through fog so thick it seemed you could grab it and place it in your pocket as a souvenir. We also talked, seeking the latest information who had just traveled from the direction we were heading.
No good news. What lay ahead was what lay behind. Except once you got past the fog, there was rain.
So Steve and I went through the cumbersome procedure of donning our wet-weather riding gear. For me that meant Frog Tog jacket and rain pants, leather chaps, riding jacket (with armor in the shoulders and elbows). Those were added to my full-face helmet, new waterproof riding boots and gloves, all of which I always wear. Some of it was to keep me dry. Some was in recognition of the reality that two-wheels on a wet road is never as stable as four.
So off we headed. Ooops.
I was the lead bike, but when I looked in my mirror, Steve wasn't there. I pulled over and looked back, only to see Steve and a white SUV sitting side-by-side in the roadway.
It seems the white SUV came out of the fog and tried to speed up in front of him. They banged together. The SUV ended up with a couple of minor dings, and Steve's motorcycle had only a scratch or two. No one was upset, and a few minutes later were were back on the road -- this time following the tail lights of the same SUV through the fog.
Within a dozen miles we were out of the fog. Past Mount Mitchel we stopped at an overlook, still following the SUV. There we chatted with Patty, the pleasant tattooed woman who was driving the SUV. She took photos of Steve and me, then posed for a mock fight photo with Steve.
Then we were off again. And within a few miles we hit a steady light rain.
The Bear.
We continued to wind along the Parkway in the rain. Just past mile marker 334, it happened.
We were on a slight downhill stretch with tall trees on both sides, me in the lead, traveling maybe 35 miles per hour on the wet road. Off to my right, only 15 or 20 feet in front of me, a moving shape flashed and caught my ey
e.
A black bear ambled out onto the road right in front of me.
I was riding in the left-center part of my lane. It seemed as if the bear was going to head down the traveled lane -- MY traveled lane!
I hit my brakes. Immediately the back wheel locked and skidded left. I released the rear brake and the bike straightened. Given the bear's path and the improbability of being able to steer sharp enough right to go behind him, I was headed slightly left to go on to the left of the bear.
But the bear had other ideas.
He turned and looked at me over his shoulder. He looked straight at me. His eyes seemed to get as big as Oreo cookies. The look on his face showed he was as surprised at seeing me as I was at seeing him.
And he darted. Across the road. Right in front of me.
For an instant a single thought passed through my mind. "I'm going to hit a frickin' bear."
It wasn't panic. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even excited. It was just a statement of fact.
But what I did was not thought out. It was just reaction.
I kept off the brake on the rain-slick road, steered hard right, and "dirt tracked" the bike by putting my foot on the road to help me make the sharp turn and keep the bike upright.
It worked. Somehow.
But if I hadn't been occupied with keeping the motorcycle upright, I could have kicked the bear in the butt as I went by.
It was that close.
But it was over. The entire episode took maybe three seconds. A hundred yards down the road, I took an itemized inventory in my head. "I'm okay. Bike's okay. Bear's okay. Got the story of the trip." Then I started laughing. Right inside my helmet, rain spattering all around, I laughed.
Steve Winters, riding right behind me, was amazed that I missed the bear and kept the bike upright. In fact, he thought I hit the bear. At lunch just a couple of miles down the road, he was surprised when I told him I missed the bear.
Greg
Walking out of the Burger King where we grabbed lunch, I met Greg. He was maybe 40 years old, scruffy and a bit unkempt. His face etched with experiences beyond his years.
He was in a wheel chair. One leg was missing above the knee.
I walked by on the way out, and he said "Hi." Then he followed it up by asking how our ride was going.
We talked for a while, exchanging pleasantries. He is an electrician and a mechanic. He also rides motorcycles.
After a few minutes, I asked about his leg. I was expecting a story about a motorcycle accident. I didn't get it.
"MRSA," he said. He lost his leg to a vicious infection. But the doctors saved his life.
Now Greg talked with enthusiasm about the prosthetic leg he would soon receive. "Lot more than a wooden leg," he said with a smile. He explained how with his background as a mechanic and electrician, he looked into how the miracle of modern prosthetics worked.
Then Greg explained how he had ridden the Blue Ridge Parkway all the way to the Shenandoah Valley just two years earlier. And the thing he was looking forward to doing the most when he got his prosthetic leg?
Getting on his motorcycle and riding the Blue Ridge Parkway again.
At long last - sleep
An hour or so later, we rolled into Blowing Rock, North Carolina, a crowded little tourist town filled with hotels and restaurants. After unloading the bike and getting out of my rain gear, I headed to the pool. I let the water ease over my tiredness in gentle waves.
In miles, it was the shortest day of the entire trip. Less than 150 miles. But it was the most tiring.
That night, bone tired, for the first time on the trip, I slept.
Fog and Rain
Day three started early for me -- very early.
 |
| Fog blankets valley in the pre-dawn light |
The night was restless with my mind racing through thoughts and images from the previous day. My feet hurt. So did my hands, a product of long hours of engine vibrations transmitted through the handle grips. It was even hard to hold a pen to write in my journal.
But the benefit of waking long before dawn was the ability to look out the large windows in my room at the Mt. Pisgah Inn and watch dawn slowly take shape. Across the valley that stretched from horizon to horizon, were mountains - deep green-blue shapes set against the azure sky tinged with touches of pre-dawn pink. In the valley, fog nestled like so much soft freshly-shorn fleece.
 |
| Me with the early morning fog behind. |
I made coffee, then sat in a rocker on the balcony and watched the dawn appear. On my second cup of coffee - or maybe my third - a young family appeared at an overlook below my room. I called to them and went down to make to take a photo of the entire family. Someone passing by beat me to it, but I still talked with the family, hearing the story of their harrowing late-night trip through the fog to the Inn. Then the husband took a photo of me with the valley as a backdrop. Usually the photographer, there are actually few photos of me.
My riding companion Steve Winters and I met up for breakfast at the Inn's restaurant, then loaded the bikes. The forecast included possibility of rain over the next three days. But for now, it was a beautiful sunny day and the road was waiting.
Not many miles passed before the early morning promise gave way to clouds. Those clouds descended to just above the roadway (or were we rising in the elevation?). The road, still wet from early morning fog, was a deep shimmering black ribbon that cut through the lush green of the North Carolina forest seeming almost like a tropical rain forest. The green was deep and velvety rich, here and there accented with bright yellow wildflowers that dotted the roadside.
 |
| Craggy Gardens in fog & wind |
Several groups of motorcycles, as well as a few cars, stopped. All of us were taking a break from the intensity of riding (or driving) through fog so thick it seemed you could grab it and place it in your pocket as a souvenir. We also talked, seeking the latest information who had just traveled from the direction we were heading.
So Steve and I went through the cumbersome procedure of donning our wet-weather riding gear. For me that meant Frog Tog jacket and rain pants, leather chaps, riding jacket (with armor in the shoulders and elbows). Those were added to my full-face helmet, new waterproof riding boots and gloves, all of which I always wear. Some of it was to keep me dry. Some was in recognition of the reality that two-wheels on a wet road is never as stable as four.
So off we headed. Ooops.
I was the lead bike, but when I looked in my mirror, Steve wasn't there. I pulled over and looked back, only to see Steve and a white SUV sitting side-by-side in the roadway.
 |
| Steve (right) & me after the fog. |
Within a dozen miles we were out of the fog. Past Mount Mitchel we stopped at an overlook, still following the SUV. There we chatted with Patty, the pleasant tattooed woman who was driving the SUV. She took photos of Steve and me, then posed for a mock fight photo with Steve.
Then we were off again. And within a few miles we hit a steady light rain.
The Bear.
We continued to wind along the Parkway in the rain. Just past mile marker 334, it happened.
 |
We were on a slight downhill stretch with tall trees on both sides, me in the lead, traveling maybe 35 miles per hour on the wet road. Off to my right, only 15 or 20 feet in front of me, a moving shape flashed and caught my ey
e.
A black bear ambled out onto the road right in front of me.
I was riding in the left-center part of my lane. It seemed as if the bear was going to head down the traveled lane -- MY traveled lane!
I hit my brakes. Immediately the back wheel locked and skidded left. I released the rear brake and the bike straightened. Given the bear's path and the improbability of being able to steer sharp enough right to go behind him, I was headed slightly left to go on to the left of the bear.
But the bear had other ideas.
He turned and looked at me over his shoulder. He looked straight at me. His eyes seemed to get as big as Oreo cookies. The look on his face showed he was as surprised at seeing me as I was at seeing him.
And he darted. Across the road. Right in front of me.
For an instant a single thought passed through my mind. "I'm going to hit a frickin' bear."
It wasn't panic. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even excited. It was just a statement of fact.
But what I did was not thought out. It was just reaction.
I kept off the brake on the rain-slick road, steered hard right, and "dirt tracked" the bike by putting my foot on the road to help me make the sharp turn and keep the bike upright.
It worked. Somehow.
But if I hadn't been occupied with keeping the motorcycle upright, I could have kicked the bear in the butt as I went by.
It was that close.
But it was over. The entire episode took maybe three seconds. A hundred yards down the road, I took an itemized inventory in my head. "I'm okay. Bike's okay. Bear's okay. Got the story of the trip." Then I started laughing. Right inside my helmet, rain spattering all around, I laughed.
Steve Winters, riding right behind me, was amazed that I missed the bear and kept the bike upright. In fact, he thought I hit the bear. At lunch just a couple of miles down the road, he was surprised when I told him I missed the bear.
Greg
Walking out of the Burger King where we grabbed lunch, I met Greg. He was maybe 40 years old, scruffy and a bit unkempt. His face etched with experiences beyond his years.
He was in a wheel chair. One leg was missing above the knee.
I walked by on the way out, and he said "Hi." Then he followed it up by asking how our ride was going.
We talked for a while, exchanging pleasantries. He is an electrician and a mechanic. He also rides motorcycles.
After a few minutes, I asked about his leg. I was expecting a story about a motorcycle accident. I didn't get it.
"MRSA," he said. He lost his leg to a vicious infection. But the doctors saved his life.
Now Greg talked with enthusiasm about the prosthetic leg he would soon receive. "Lot more than a wooden leg," he said with a smile. He explained how with his background as a mechanic and electrician, he looked into how the miracle of modern prosthetics worked.
Then Greg explained how he had ridden the Blue Ridge Parkway all the way to the Shenandoah Valley just two years earlier. And the thing he was looking forward to doing the most when he got his prosthetic leg?
Getting on his motorcycle and riding the Blue Ridge Parkway again.
At long last - sleep
An hour or so later, we rolled into Blowing Rock, North Carolina, a crowded little tourist town filled with hotels and restaurants. After unloading the bike and getting out of my rain gear, I headed to the pool. I let the water ease over my tiredness in gentle waves.
In miles, it was the shortest day of the entire trip. Less than 150 miles. But it was the most tiring.
That night, bone tired, for the first time on the trip, I slept.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Motorcycle Trip - Day 2: Blue Ridge Pkwy - Tunnels and Fog to Mr. Pisgah
 |
| Overlook near beginning of Parkway |
It's difficult to write about the rest of the trip because Steve was such a part of it. On the other hand, the story of this trip is in large part the story of Steve's sense of adventure and his determination to live out the dream he had for more than 40 years to travel the Blue Ridge Parkway.
I've decided to go forward with these posts detailing our trip. The posts are taken from the notes I kept in a journal memorializing events of each day while fresh in my mind -- sometimes adding reflections in the morning while drinking a last cup of coffee before hitting the road.
These posts are dedicated to Steve, his memory and his spirit.
Day 2: Tunnels and Fog to Mt. Pisgah
 |
| Parkway Overlook reflected in my motorcycle |
We entered the Blue Ridge Parkway at mid-afternoon on Friday. A rustic painted sign declared "You Are Entering the Blue Ridge Parkway." The first mile post read "469."
The first impression as we road the two-lane ribbon of blacktop was that it was everything we were looking for. The sun was bright, bathing the valleys below in glorious afternoon sun. Clouds were building over the mountains, but that was for later. For now, we just enjoyed the beauty before us.
It wasn't long before we encountered the first of 25 tunnels on the Parkway. All but one are in the first 100 miles. Riding through tunnels in a motorcycle is a different experience than riding in a car - particularly tunnels like those on the Blue Ridge Parkway that have minimal lighting and often curve through the mountain.
 |
| Afternoon clouds build over mountains |
It is not like riding at night. The darkness closes in. You can feel the dampness around you. The bike seems to move across the road surface, not unlike when riding across a steel grate on a bridge or grooved payment under construction. And while not getting a good look at the road surface is not particularly important in a car, it is a bit disconcerting on a motorcycle.
But riding the tunnels had the thrill of a new experience. Eyes up. Focus on the light at the end of the tunnel. And you're through. And you're smiling. It's fun - until you ride in a tunnel filled with fog. But more on that later.
We made our first stop at an overlook and just took in the view - and absorbed the fact that we were actually on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Maybe 45 miles down the road we stopped at a rest area
with a magnificent view of the valleys and mountains. It was there that we met Myra and Michael, and their friend. We talked for probably 20 minutes, Steve making new friends as he did everywhere we went.
 |
| Myra and Michael live "just over that mountain." |
When Steve asked where the couple was from, we were surprised by the answer. "See that mountain over there," Myra said. "We're from just on the other side of it."
It seems that for Michael and Myra, the Blue Ridge Parkway was their local place to ride. They were out for just a short afternoon ride.
When we left the rest area, the clouds were beginning to build. I put rain covers on my saddle bags, but did not bother with putting on rain gear.
 |
| Fog rolling in across mountains |
Our first night on the Parkway we were to stay at the Mt. Pisgah Inn. Named for the mountain from which Moses saw the Promised Land that he could never enter, Mt. Pisgah is the highest point on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
With late afternoon starting to move toward dusk, we stopped briefly at an overlook about 15 miles from our destination. We could tell the fog was closing in quickly.
 |
| Riding through the fog |
At times the road seemed to momentarily disappear. We had to touch the brakes just to make sure that we could tell which direction the road was turning.
Then we came to a tunnel. A long tunnel. A long tunnel that curved.
Riding through a tunnel in dense fog is a unique experience. The fog invades the tunnel. Your lights reflect off the tunnel walls and into the fog giving it a nearly incandescent look. You can understand how they could make a horror movie titled "The Fog."
 |
| Riding through tunnel in fog |
We were chilled from the mist in the fog. We made a short stop to put on our jackets. We pulled out behind a pickup truck, and his tail lights helped us move through the next stretch of road.
With darkness nearing, we cleared the last tunnel, then just a few more miles down the road pulled into the Mt. Pisgah Inn.
 |
| Exiting the tunnel |
We celebrated and relaxed at the Mt. Pisgah Inn restaurant. Our waitress was Fie (pronounced "Fee"), short for Sophie. She was probably in her early 40s, but you could tell only if you looked closely and saw the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She was coolly professional, but as Steve joked and grinned, she warmed up to us.
Fie was from Huntington Beach, California. She cam to the area earlier this year to visit relatives. She intended to do a lease with an option to buy a nearby house, but the deal fell through. So now she lives in a small cabin with a tin roof that sits by a creek. She likes the area but is home sick for the sun and ocean in California. She will work through the hotel's "season" (it closes in November), saving her money for her return to Huntington Beach.
Steve and I tried local beers: Highland Pale Ale and Mocha Creams Stout. I had fresh local whole brook trout. Steve, an avid fisherman, made fun of the head and tail on my fish, but admitted that he was impressed with my ability to leave only a cartoon-like skeleton, head and tail attached, when I was done. Though we knew we shouldn't, we both finished up with coffee and the restaurant's desert specialty: French Silk Pie "All In." It was dense chocolate pie with a delicate graham cracker crust, served with real whipped cream, ice cream and fresh berries.
No, we shouldn't have eaten it. But with how everything turned out, I'm glad we shared that desert - and that time together. It was the best meal we had on the trip.
That night, after dinner, Steve came to my room. We sat on the balcony, sitting in wooden rockers with a wooden table between us. I brought out the large plastic flask of Makers 46 bourbon and two glasses -- real glass. I poured a bit in each, then set the flask on the table between us, within easy reach.
 |
| Rocking chair and view from my room |
But mostly we just sat. In the silence. In the dark. Neither of us knowing what the future held.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
In Memoriam - Steve Winters: 1945-2013
 |
| Steve Winters |
He leaves behind his wife Diana, two adult children, two brothers, and more friends than one can count.
Steve was a great bear of a man who lived and enjoyed life to the fullest. He rode in Rolling Thunder, the motorcycle group that rides to Washington DC each year to remember the MIAs from Viet Nam. He rode with honor patrols escorting the bodies of servicemen home for burial.
And no matter where he was, when it met a veteran, he always took the time to say a heart-felt thank you.
I was privileged to get to know Steve over the past five years - to become close friends. That happens when you share thousands of miles on motorcycles and more than a few evening sipping bourbon. In the past two years, we took four trips together -- the Tail of the Dragon & the Bourbon Trail in 2012, and New Orleans Jazz Fest and the Blue Ridge Parkway & Skyline Drive this year. Weather necessitated taking a car to New Orleans, but all the other trip were on our motorcycles.
On our trip to New Orleans, I introduced Steve to fried green tomatoes, crawfish ("mudbugs" he insisted) and street music. It was his first time in the Big Easy, and before we left, he was already planning a return trip, this time with his wife Diana.
But of all our travels, the highlight was our recent 1,763 mile, nine-state adventure. We rode the Tail of the Dragon (US 129) and Moonshiner (US 28), the entire 469 miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway and the 105-mile Skyline Drive through Shenandoah National Park.
The trip fulfilled a dream Steve had for more than 40 years. Since he was young and his family camped at Great Smokey Mountain National Park, he wanted to travel the entire Blue Ridge Parkway. And he did.
Unlike so many deferred dreams, Steve told me on the last day of our trip that the actual experience exceeded his every expectation. It was everything he hoped - and more.
In trying to save Steve's life, physicians discovered an incurable cancer ravaging Steve's body - something of which Steve was unaware. He would have soon began to feel its impact, and it was likely he would not have survived until the next riding season.
Maybe God, in his wisdom, knew that Steve was not the type of man to waste away in a hospital bed. Maybe He let him have that one last great adventure, the trip of a lifetime, before cancer deprived him of his ability to make that dream come true -- before God called him home.
On our trip, Steve so obviously enjoyed every minute -- smiling, laughing, talking with people along the road, taking in the glory of the mountain overlooks, and just simply enjoying the road beneath his wheels.
That's the way I will remember him.
Every time I start up my motorcycle, I will think of Steve. And I will miss him.
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