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.

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

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.

Steve (right) & me after the fog.

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.