So here's the daily account that I kept each evening, and sometimes in the early morning.
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| My Honda VTX, packed for travel |
Everything packed and loaded on to my 1300 cc Honda VTX-R cruiser. Planned start
time of 7:45 am delayed by one-half hour due to dense fog. Very heavy fog from Muncie to New Castle. (Wouldn't be the last fog we would see -- or the worst). Followed large truck for a while, thinking drivers are more likely to see the truck than a solo motorcycle. Cleared south of New Castle, but rolled in again as approached Rushville. South of Rushville, the fog burned off and sun came out.
Met up with Steve Winters at Amaco station in Greensburg. For ease of reference, I'll call him Winters so readers won't confuse what my assistant refers to as "Steve squared."
With Winters leading on his Harley-Davidson Ultra Classic, we headed south on US 421. Passed the tree growing out of the Courthouse in downtown Greensburg and the Damm Theater in Osgood.
South of Versailles we got waived over by a State Policeman. He was courteous and friendly. Checked our motorcycle endorsements and gave us a verbal suggestion to slow down a bit. He waived us on and wished us well on the trip. Winters promised to watch the speed a little closer.
We crossed the Ohio River on the new bridge at Madison. The sun sparkled on the water like infinite stars twinkling in a north Wisconsin sky. I slowed to take in the beauty of the water. To the east, a solitary tug slowly moved a barge against the current, heading up-river toward Cincinnati. To the west, smoke stacks stood out against the crystal blue sky, puffs of white steam billowing upward into continuous regenerating clouds.
Once across the river, we headed through the gently rolling hills of northern Kentucky. Corn stood in late summer brown with only touches of summer green. A few fields of tobacco shimmered golden against the rich green countryside.
Passing through small towns, we hit first real twisty stretch of our trip, a section of US 421 that runs into Frankfort, KY. We stop in Frankfort at a Mexican restaurant that Winters recommends. We try the daily fish special and it is surprisingly good.
Then we are on to the Interstate for the first time in the trip. We take I-64 a short distance to Lexington, where we pick up I-75 south. The wind and the heat of the day increase as we head into mid-afternoon. It makes riding more strenuous. In fact, the fatigue of traveling hundreds of miles on the Interstate in the heat and wind is second only to the day of riding the Blue Ridge Parkway in dense fog and rain. But that is yet to come.
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| "4 Egg-citing Days": World Famous Chicken Festival |
Walking out of the restaurant, we talk for a moment with a guy in his mid-40s, obviously traveling by motorcycle. His cruiser is on the small side for interstate travel, and isn't loaded with traveling bags. He has a large gym bag attached to the back with bungy cords. He tells us he is from the Detroit area and is headed to Huntsville to visit his ex-wife. It seems that despite the legalities of the divorce, he still is carrying a torch that makes it worth an 800 mile motorcycle trip -- each way.
As we get ready to pull out, a couple pulls in on a Harley touring bike. They are headed to Gatlinburg for a vacation. The guy seems in his mid-30s; the woman a bit younger. For her, it is her first trip by motorcycle. She admits to being hesitant about traveling so far, but is enjoying the trip. The big Road King is much more comfortable than she expected, but after hours on the bike, she gives her backside a massage and rather sheepishly admits that her butt is starting to ache.
Leaving the McDonald's I count down the miles to the Tennessee state line: 54, 33, 21, 14 . . . It's a habit I will follow through much of the trip.
We pass by Jellico, TN, where last year when traveling to the Dragon, we had to take a twisty up-hill / down-hill detour where one side of the Interstate had collapsed off the side of the mountain, taking one truck with it.
As we ride through the mountains in northeastern Tennessee, I watch a beautiful array of billowing white clouds with blue-gray underbellies. I'm suddenly hit with the presence of Don Green. He is my former father-in-law who died only a few days before our trip. I thought the world of Don. He was as good a man as I have ever known. And for much of his life, he rode a motorcycle.
I'm not much of a believer in such things as people's spirit visiting you. But the feeling that came over me was an overwhelming sense of his presence, of looking down on our motorcycle adventure with contentment. It was something more than a fleeting thought, and it has left an indelible mark upon me.
We hit mist and some spitting rain as we went through a mountain pass closely surrounded by heavy truck traffic. But it lasted only long enough to put some beading water on the windscreen and my face shield. We did not bother stopping to put on rain gear, and in a few miles we were back in the clear.
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| Hot Rod's 50s Diner in Maryville, TN |
Katie, a pretty 20-something waitress, took care of us. She was bright and talkative. We found out that the friendly waitress we had the year before had been fired for pocketing money from the till. We also discovered the tattooed music notes on her neck, and the thin bar piercing that stretched across the top of her ear.
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| Katie, our star server at Hot Rods 50s Diner |
Winter's asked, "What's that for?" She rolled her eyes a bit, and I told my riding buddy that would tell him later.
Leaving the restaurant, a 60ish couple approaches us. He is a big man who retired from the military to the hills of southeastern Tennessee. But he is a Hoosier by birth, growing up in Paoli. I suggest that he needs to go back and visit the refurbished West Baden Springs Hotel, and both he and his wife seem interested.
It's then that his wife comments that her husband's motorcycle was totaled only the day before. Seems he was riding his motorcycle when a dump truck backed into it -- with him on it. Somehow he avoided being hurt even though the entire front of the bike was crushed.
We spend time talking about motorcycles. He suggests several motorcycle rides which he thinks are far superior to the Tail of the Dragon. Winters and I politely take his suggestions and note them for future trips, but we know that this trip is planned out.
From Marysville, we head east 20 miles to our stopping place for the night, a small mom & pop motel at the foot of the Smokies in Townsend, TN. Its already dusk as we race the darkness eastward, riding along a winding highway between deep woods and mountainsides, the highway protected from rock slides by metal barriers. The mountains are in front of us, rising in deep Persian blue through a thin veil of haze. Above the peaks, lit by the last rays of the setting sun, is a towering bright-white cumulonibus cloud, with its anvil top dwarfing even the giant mountains. Lightning flashes in the cloud.
Finally, darkness all around, we arrive at the Hendricks River Breeze Motel. The elderly owners are already off to bed. We pick up the keys to our rooms in an envelop taped to the office door. "Pay us in the morning," a scrawled note says.
I find my way to my room (there are only about 8 rooms, all in a line). I unpack then take a long cold shower, washing away the heat and grime of the road. I try to drink a beer we picked up at the local convenience store, but I'm just not in the mood. I lay down and try to sleep, the feel of the road still rumbling through my hands.
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