Nederland, the Peak to Peak, and Conifer

On Friday morning I got up early with the intention to do some real mountain riding on the Peak to Peak Highway. Weather was clear and traffic light as I headed up 470 to route 6 in Golden, but as soon as I got into the foothills, I hit traffic. Then there was a construction zone. Then there was a giant trailer carrying another giant vehicle, averaging a blistering 11mph going through the curves and collecting a long line of cars. When the hill got steeper we dropped to 8mph.

I saw an opening in a straightaway and pulled out, passing several cars with a twist of the throttle. Then the follow car, a pickup truck with a yellow OVERSIZE LOAD sign, pulled out of traffic and into the other lane to block me. Annoyed, I took a spot behind the first car in line and stayed there. I could have beat the trailer with no problem, but I didn't want to play games with the asshole driving the follow car, lest he think it appropriate to run me off the road in the name of safety.

 

After that I got caught behind a pair of slow motorcyclists on big cruisers, who sped up in every passing zone so I couldn't get around them. Then there was another construction zone, and another. Fed up, I turned around several miles short of Estes Park and went back. Going south I got caught behind another slow motorcyclist, this one riding a Triumph Speed Triple, a bike that could run circles around Hina if its rider would only do so. By the time we dropped back onto route 6, I'd had about three curves to myself and was thoroughly annoyed with everyone.

That night I went with Steve and Ann to a party in Conifer, which was being thrown to celebrate one of their friends getting a patent on a new method of teaching music theory. The friend's band played outside under a tent, then there was a demonstration of the patented system, and then other musicians started filtering in and out of the gigging space and jamming. Ann had gotten up to sing and was halfway through a duet with Steve when the cops showed up. A neighbor had complained about the noise level. I suspect that moment will go down in history as "the night Ann brought the cops."

The Dragon

The weather was warm and clear as we headed into the mountains. Eventually we found some clouds, just enough to keep the sun from blinding us. We were both excited about the Dragon. The last time I rode it was in August, and I'd been putting some work into my riding skills in the intervening time. Rogue had yet to test herself on the famously twisty mountain pass.

We made a brief stop at Fontana Dam, since we were passing by it anyway, and snagged some pictures from the bridge.

When we arrived at Deal's Gap, we were startled and disappointed to find it closed and locked. The parking lot was blocked off, with a sign saying it was closed for the season.

           

The season? What season? It was 75 degrees, dry and summery. Why would you close a motorcycle resort when such beautiful weather can still be had?

Fortunately the road itself was open. We set our iPods to our favorite respective riding playlists (Lindsey Stirling for me) and twisted our throttles.

I remembered the Dragon being a terrifying experience. When I took Bee through it the first time, I stayed in first gear through most of it, used my brakes a lot, and was fairly unhappy with my performance afterward. I was also very glad to get back to smoother, more open mountain roads, like 28.

This time it was like a different road. The study and practice I'd put into my riding skills paid off in spades. It was no longer scary and intimidating, but an exciting challenge and a wonderful space to play.

The upside of it being off-season was the small number of other vehicles on the road. Two tiny souped-up sports cars whined in ahead of us and were gone. A pack of sport bikes came screaming through from the north, their riders dragging knees along the yellow line. I passed two pickup trucks and a sedan, and waved to a pair of people on a large touring bike. A handful of people were photographing the scenery at the overlook, and other than that, we had the road to ourselves.

A few minutes in I scraped my left boot on the pavement and tucked my feet closer in to the bike. Then I scraped my right boot, and then my right peg. I was disappointed to find the 11 miles and 318 curves over so soon, and I idled in the pull-off at the far end in a cloud of tiny flies and waited for Rogue. When she appeared, we dove back in again.

If my run north was good, my run south was great. Sailing into a right switchback, I dipped Bee so low that she squeezed my foot against the asphalt and I yanked us out of the turn, startled. For a moment I was puzzled - I knew I hadn't reached the limits of the bike - and then I remembered Lee Parks' advice on lean angle and was able to troubleshoot myself. Through the remaining miles I hung off the side of the bike through every turn, pushing my skills into a new level.

I popped out of the south end and back into Deal's Gap with a huge grin on my face, knowing I had just leveled up. Between swatting flies and rolling out my shoulders, I inspected my back tire and was proud to see that I had finally reached its edge at least once. Those chicken strips will disappear yet.

The Last Few Miles

We decided to stay off the highway for the remainder of our journey home. A crash on business 11 stuck us in traffic for quite a few minutes, but when we finally found highway 11, it was clear and beautiful. The wind was whipping hard, though. After getting blown into the passing lane a couple of times, I started preemptively ducking down against my tank every time we approached a bridge.

After sixty miles I was chilly, and I imagined that Rogue, wearing less gear and thinner gloves, must be miserable. I parked at Apple Valley restaurant in Milford, Pennsylvania. I was looking forward to a mug of hot cider and some mac 'n' cheese, but first there was a biker store to visit.

The clown on a chopper got our attention first, followed by the adorably chunky dog of some other visitors to the shop. We got to talking to the lady rider who worked there, and she advised us to get back on 84 in spite of the brake problems to shorten our drive, avoid traffic lights, and stay near large towns in case we needed a hotel. Rogue bought a fuzzy purple Turtle Fur to improve her ride.

At Apple Valley, we were seated quickly and then ignored for so long that I nearly walked out. The interior decoration was cute and cozy, but the staff clearly couldn't keep up with the number of guests coming through the door, and the food was unnecessarily expensive. We shared a pot pie, which was tasty but not the most spectacular food I've ever had, and went on our way.

Interstate 84 brought us to the Taconic Parkway. I love the Taconic; it's hilly and interesting and surrounded by tight walls of forest. We had hit the high point of a particularly spectacular autumn, and the trees glowed gold, orange, and red. The sun edged lower in the sky as we wheeled our way north and was sinking below the trees when we hit 90. There we stopped for gas and hot coffee, and we snacked and drank by the cash register to avoid going back out in the cold.

A beautiful sunset with a flaming sky saw us through our last 80 miles. It was fully dark and we were thoroughly freezing when we hit 91. Rogue turned north with a wave, and I turned south, fantasizing about a cup of tea and a big pile of blankets in my own bed.

Blue Ridge Parkway

The "short hop" over the mountains on 441 was scenic but irritating, as we got stuck in a long line of slow drivers. I tried to enjoy the misty golden sunlight filtering through endless trees and hoped that when we hit the Blue Ridge Parkway itself the traffic would clear.

Unfortunately that was not the case. In fact, the cars got even slower, until I experienced the joy that Cider had found in riding Pike's Peak: cars moving so slowly that following them actually becomes a struggle, because a bike needs a certain amount of speed to lean over without falling down. Frustrated, I zigged back and forth, dragged my feet on the pavement, and generally made an ass of myself while we crawled along like heroin-addled snails.

If the entire Parkway is like this, I'm going to survive about 5 miles before I stab someone.

Fortunately the worst of the offenders in cages turned off at scenic stops and we were able to pick up the pace a bit. I skipped the first few turnoffs and eventually exited the parkway to get gas in Maggie Valley.

"You are such a tease!" Rogue complained. "Stopping at that pull-off and then leaving again."

"I was just waiting for you," I said. "So you could follow me to gas."

"The scenery!" she said. "The mountains, oh my god! I want to take pictures!"

"That's nothing," I said, with a deliberately obnoxious been-there-done-that inflection. "You just wait. Don't waste your battery here; it gets better."

She stared at me doubtfully, but said she would trust my word.

Back on the parkway, I skipped a few more pull-outs and then stopped at one of the broadest views we'd seen yet. I enjoyed the scenery and cleaned my sunglasses while Rogue dug out her camera and did her photographer thing.

Among other reasons I was glad to have my derby wife along was her photography. A writer and a photographer are pretty perfect companions, and while I get some decent pictures, she has a trained eye that I don't. Many of the photos I'm posting from this trip are her work, and I'm grateful to have them.

We passed most of our day passing - cars, motorhomes, and the occasional bicyclist. I rode ahead, winding up the engine to get around slow vehicles in small spaces, enjoying the few wide-open miles I found but spending a huge amount of my day frustratedly stuck. The parkway was busier than it had been in August, and I didn't like the changed conditions.

One roadside stop promised a waterfall, but once we had parked, the sign said it was over a mile hike away. We unpacked our meatloaf sandwiches and ate them in the seats of a small amphitheatre. The air had a chill, but not a threatening one, and both walking and riding were pleasant. The sandwiches, the only home-made food we'd had while traveling, were delicious.

ReTracing My Steps

The two of us scooted out early as planned and hit the Trace for real. We'd done a few miles on it while finding the campground, but hadn't been able to enjoy the scenery in the dark. Riding over the Barnett reservoir on the 43 bridge just after sunrise was peaceful and serene. A hint of mist hung over the water, and traffic was light.

We passed a whole lot of cars and a few bikes, and got stuck in some brief construction traffic. When a sign warned of bridge work ahead and to expect delays up to half an hour, we hit a pull-out so we could get a snack before potentially getting irritatingly stuck. There was only one vehicle in the parking lot: a KLR 650 in black and lime green.

Its owner, an older gentleman with white hair, was sitting on a picnic table. He watched as we parked, geared down, and dug through our bags. I got fouled up in the cargo net and poured a can of potato strings all over my luggage and the ground, then started laughing so hard I couldn't put them back and Rogue had to help me.

When I had gotten my poop in a group, at least for the current moment, we joined the man at the picnic table. We talked bikes and trail riding and he advised us on the location of the nearest gas station. Then a pickup truck with a couple of large antennas on it pulled in and I got distracted talking to the driver, who was a ham operator and also a Harley rider.

He stayed for five minutes or so and then moved on, and the rider of the KLR said, "I didn't want to say anything while he was here, but I'm really not a fan of Harleys."

The Trace has probably hundreds of stops, each with a name and a bit of historical signage. Some of them are hiking trails, some are picnic areas, some are Indian mounds, and at least one is a tobacco barn. Two of them are waterfalls, and I put away my desire to make miles long enough for a short climb down Fall Hollow. I'd stopped in that spot the previous year and wished I could've taken Rogue with me; now that I actually had her along, there was no excuse to pass it by.

Nearing the north end of the Trace, we were detoured onto state roads to avoid some construction. I'd been looking forward to riding the northernmost ten miles, which are the most twisty, but it became evident that we'd reach town faster by not returning to the parkway.

Somewhere along the way my phone ran out of data. I tried to buy more, but the device insisted that I must be connected to WiFi to perform that action. Whichever programmer thought that was a good way to write an app was not on my list of favorite people that day. I would hope that the one action it could still perform when out of data would be to buy more data.

At our last gas stop of the afternoon, I was channeling Grumpy Cat. Between the time of day (later than I'd hoped), the useless cellular device, and finding out that Frank had to work overnight on the only night we'd be in town, I was about ready to bite someone's head off. Fortunately I realized that lack of food was part of the problem and got myself a snack before I did anything regrettable. Rogue had the clever idea of tethering her phone into a hotspot so I could use the "WiFi" to get more data, and it worked.

With some coffee and crackers down my gullet and my GPS awake again, I navigated without incident to 12 South. I backed Bee in to the right of Frank's V-Star, and Rogue backed Hades in on the left; the three days since our arrival at Crockett Street had apparently made a difference for her.

"It's so little," Rogue said with a giggle, nodding at the V-Star. It did look rather hemmed in by its new companions.

The Dragon and The Killer

When Frank got home from work at 4 o'clock on Tuesday morning, his footsteps snapped me awake, and that was that; I was up for the day. I loaded all my things, which had gotten strewn remarkably thoroughly into corners over the four days I'd been there, back onto the bike, and was on the road in time to watch the sun rise. I stopped again 140 miles later for gas, and took a stretching and biscuit break with my coffee. Some locals in the gas station talked to me about the Tail of the Dragon, where I was headed, giving me warnings about cops and other drivers.

Once off of I40, the road went through farmland and then into foothills. We followed a beautiful river, the road hilly and winding and shaded by trees. The curves got more interesting as we progressed toward Deal's Gap. We passed a couple of touristy-looking places offering Dragon stickers and T-shirts, and out of nowhere I suddenly found myself barreling into a hairpin turn.

Holding on for dear life and looking as far into the turn as I could see, I leaned what felt like most of the way to the ground and dragged us through it. It was an ugly thing and we came a hair's width from going into the woods, but we pulled out of the other end intact. Shaken, I stopped at the next pull-off and prodded my GPS.

I'd told it to direct me to Deal's Gap. What I had failed to notice is that the Gap Resort is at the north end, and we were coming from the south, so while I thought that we were still eleven miles away, in reality we were already in the Tail.

I put on my jacket, realizing I'd entered into something that might be a little over my head, and suddenly I felt relatively likely to bite it somewhere in the next ten-point-something miles. Then I started my music back at the beginning so I wouldn't have to touch it, took a deep breath, and rolled out again.

No one came up behind me, for which I was grateful; one of the locals had warned me that people would speed right by me in tight turns with inches to spare, and I didn't relish the thought of that. The Dragon was breathtaking. The only thing that could have made it more extreme would have been cliffs in place of the trees, like the road up Pike's Peak.

Since I didn't know the road, I took it cautiously; it was peppered with decreasing-radius hairpin turns. It wasn't my prettiest riding, but I got through without hitting the ground. By the time I reached the Deal's Gap motorcycle "resort" on the north end, I felt like I had had several successive heart attacks, and I was ready for some time on my own two feet. I parked Bee in a long row of other motorcycles, all varieties from trikes and full dressers to little crotch rockets and everything in between.

I admired some of the bikes, the area map on the porch wall, and the Tree of Shame in front of the motel. I almost headed out then, but told myself there must be another lone biker in the area who could be interesting to talk to, so I ordered a bratwurst at the grill and took a seat in front of the window where I could people-watch.

My number was called, and I picked up my chili dog and headed back to my seat. On my way I crossed paths with a man removing his gloves and jacket, and we nodded cordially at each other. He placed his things a few seats away from me at the window countertop, walked away, and reappeared shortly with food.

We exchanged the standard "how are ya where ya from whattaya ride." He was Herkimer*, from Toronto, riding a sport-touring Honda. He had a motorhome parked in Pigeon Forge, and he was on his way to ride some favorite roads in northern Georgia. He asked how I liked the Tail, and I said it was a little intense but was a great experience. He agreed that it was intense, and ranted about how much he hated getting stuck behind parades of full-dress riders crawling through the turns.

We got along well, and he asked if I wanted a riding companion for some way. I said sure, and that I guessed my own skill level to be somewhere between his and that of the parade riders; I overtake plenty of people, but there are plenty of people who can overtake me, too. I'd seen some sport riders tearing through the Dragon in the southerly direction that just made me shake my head in awe.

Heading outside with sodas in hand, we introduced each other to our bikes. His looked to be on the sporty side of touring, though it probably appeared different with luggage on. Bee was so loaded down that she was clearly leaning toward her touring capability.

Herkimer and I geared up and headed east on 28, stopping at the dam to enjoy the sites. His pace was great, fast enough to push me but not enough to lose me. The route was twisty without being terrifying, and I had a great time sailing along through curve after curve, enjoying the scenery and the sunlight and practicing transferring my weight with my feet. We stopped at the dam a few miles out.

"Dam, look at that," I said, but I'm not sure he got it.

We stopped for gas a few miles south of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I asked him if the jerky power transfer I'd been experiencing with Bee for a couple of days could be an issue with the chain, and he asked when was the last time I had tightened it. I told him I hadn't and didn't know how, because Bee is the first chain-driven bike I've owned.

"See," he said with a sigh, "Now I like you just a little less."

I laughed and protested that I had been good about oiling the chain and didn't think I'd need to know about tightening it until I returned home.

"Well, put it up on the stand and we'll take a look," he said. I said I had never successfully gotten a bike onto a center stand in my life, and he gave me a look.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. He grabbed Bee and wrestled her onto the center stand. He was shorter and quite possibly lighter than I, and suddenly I was more confident that I could do it, too.

"Step here," he said. "Push it upright and feel for the feet." That was an essential step I'd never learned. "Now grab here." Bee's passenger foot pegs have a curved mount that's a perfect hand hold. "Step down and pull up." She went halfway up, then down again as my foot slipped. "Use the bounce." I pulled again, and suddenly she was up.

"Wow!" I said. "I can't believe I did that."

I practiced pulling her on and off the stand a couple of times, and then he inspected the chain. He didn't think it seemed loose, but said we could try tightening it a little bit to see if it relieved the power transfer issue. After several tries at breaking the axle bolt, however, we came up short. I threw some oil on the chain and we moved on.

Headed into the Blue Ridge, he let me lead, which was probably his mistake; I missed the turn for the Parkway twice, once going north and once going south. Then I turned south when I should have turned north. Finally we got on the right road in the right direction, and for a while there was great riding. Then we encountered a pair of slightly slower bikers - although I have to give them credit for only being a little slower despite riding Goldwings - and then a much slower car. I don't like passing lines of multiple vehicles, so the last few miles were just chilling out and trying not to be too annoyed.

I exited the Parkway toward I26, Herkimer still behind me, and stopped.

"I'm headed for 81 and then north," I said.

He told me he was going south on 81, then, "It's too bad you're not staying closer tonight. We could go get a beer."

I thought about that and decided it was a good idea. "I can camp before 81," I said, pulling out the atlas to find a likely spot. We bought a six-pack at the gas station, did a few miles on 26, stopped for takeout at a Bojangles, and found my campsite at Rocky Creek in Unicoi, Tennessee. I was fairly annoyed to have not made it out of Tennessee for the day; Wednesday was looking longer by the minute.

Herkimer popped a top while I popped up my tent, and then we dug into our fried chicken. At long last I understood so many people's enthusiasm for fried chicken. I guess I'd never had the good stuff before. I hate to admit that it came from a fast food chain, but damn, it was amazing.

I told Herkimer I did roller derby, and asked for something interesting about him.

"I'm a certified scuba diver," he said. "And I love to fly airplanes. I like riding because it's the closest thing I've found to flying."

He was starting to seem a little James Bond-ish. The more he talked, the weirder he got. I was beginning to get a sense of some underlying current that I couldn't put my finger on.

"I never ask my clients what they do," he said of his work.

"What kind of clients?" I asked. "What do you do?"

"I'm a contractor," he said.

"A building contractor?"

"A contract killer."

"Oh. Okay." I refused to give him the satisfaction of a what-the-fuck reaction. There was a pause.

"I love that you just rolled with that," he said. I think he was grinning, but it was too dark to be sure.

"Whatever," I said. "I don't really see the point in you socializing this much with a target."

"Unless I'm just doing it to mess with you," he said, and then, "I really shouldn't say that out in the woods in the dark..."

"I'm not worried," I said. He had stepped a couple of inches closer than I liked, and I sat on the picnic table to give myself some space.

"Bear spray and a 9mm?" he asked.

"Something like that," I answered. I never tell anyone exactly what I do or don't carry for self defense. The element of surprise is one I prefer to keep close. When he asked about other things that I do, I told him I dance. I don't share my self-defense skills, either.

When it came time to exchange phone numbers so we could do some riding in the future, he pulled out a phone with no numbers in it and added me as his only contact.

"It's my burn phone," he joked. "Actually, it's my American phone."

"Sure it is," I said. At that point I was ready for bed and looking forward to having my campsite to myself. But he said he didn't feel ready to ride just yet, and I'd never push someone into riding after drinking, so I told him he could stay as long as he wanted. He hung around for another half an hour, standing awkwardly in the dark. I couldn't figure out how two ciders on top of a box of chicken had given him even the slightest buzz, but it really wasn't mine to judge.

He never told me what he did for a living. When I mentioned that I blog, he immediately told me to leave his face and name out of my writing. It wasn't until the next day, when I'd been alone in my helmet for several hours, that I assembled all of his strange clues into a whole picture and decided that he was either in witness protection...or he was really a contract killer.


*...or something.

Natchez Trace and the Red River Sirens

I was up early again on Monday morning, blogging, making coffee, and planning our bike route for the day. Frank had never ridden the Trace despite living for more than a year in Nashville, and I intended to fix that.

"I'm not used to actually seeing the morning," he had said. "Normally I'll sleep until the middle of the afternoon and then go back to work."

I coaxed him out of bed with a sandwich, then entered the Loveless Cafe in my GPS. Attempting to get directions to "Natchez Trace, Nashville, TN" had tried to lead me to Natchez, MS, but the Loveless is conveniently next to the north end of the Trace.

Most of my memory of the Trace was of fairly straight, open roadway, with gentle sweepers here and there. I'd forgotten somehow about the north end; the first five or ten miles are much tighter turns, more reminiscent of the Blue Ridge, and I had some fun ripping out a few corners. After half an hour or so, I pulled over.

"Want to switch bikes?" I asked. Frank had only ever ridden his V-Star and was curious about the concept of the sport-touring bike. I was happy to prosthelytize, after a warning to go lightly on the throttle. I surprised myself a couple of weeks ago by wheelie-ing out of a stop light, fortunately with no disastrous results.

I threw a leg over the V-Star while he climbed up on Bee. The Yamaha felt a bit like Hades, although lower and with a more forward leg position. She roared convincingly but Frank quickly left us a quarter mile in his dust, even while I opened the throttle to try to keep up. I also struggled through the first couple of turns, unable to put any weight into my feet to nail the bike to the ground. I'm quickly forgetting why anybody rides cruisers at all.

When it was time to turn around, we swapped back.

"What do you think?" I asked. "You converted to sport touring yet?"

"I'm definitely converted to a bigger engine," Frank said as he got back on the 650. He gestured toward the parkway. "You go ahead. You can do better on the speed. And the turns."

I grinned and took off. I kept it to a dull roar until those magic north-end twisty miles, and then I started pushing, focusing on my body angle and weight transfer to corner as hard as I felt comfortable.

"Man, you just disappeared when we hit those curves," Frank said, back at home. "That thing is amazing." I think my conversion tactics were successful.

I changed into my practice clothes and returned to find him playing guitar. He played Dead or Alive and I sang, and then he wandered through a few other songs while I put together the things I needed to skate. Then he was off to work, and I was off to Clarksville to practice with the Red River Sirens.

The skating rink was dark and cool, a welcome relief from the sweltering outdoors. I introduced myself to the first skater I saw, who was surprised but excited to see me. I think there were about fourteen of us all told, including the two coaches. Their most experienced skater has about six years, but the majority of them are pretty new to skating and derby. A lot of the drills and concepts they worked on were similar to ours, and Krazy Kouch actually reminded me a bit of Mars, although Mars wouldn't have put up with that much talking on the side.

After a couple of hours getting thoroughly sweaty, we went out to a nearby bar for a post-practice beer. Smoking is allowed indoors in Tennessee; I hadn't realized the no-smoking-in-bars law wasn't nationwide until this trip. I enjoyed hanging out and talking with the coaches and skaters, but when I left, I was dismayed to find that the inside of my helmet smelled obnoxiously like cigarettes.

Shenandoah National Park

Thursday dawned with no sign of bears, or any other wildlife except for a small cat who ran like hell when I tried to say hi. I skipped coffee and breakfast because I didn't want to spend time building a fire. I just packed up my things and headed out.

My atlas showed the Blue Ridge Parkway nearby. I could have gotten back on I81, but with the parkway paralleling it through Virginia, that seemed like a waste of an opportunity. At the entrance to Shenandoah National Park, the ranger told me it was the 100th birthday of the National Park Service and entrance was free; that was a pleasant surprise. I thanked her and rode on through.

At the visitors' center I parked near a group of motorcycles, one of which was a Triumph. Inside the museum I found the riders, and chatted them up briefly before they moved on. They were also headed for Nashville and assured me they'd see me on the road. After they left, I wandered through the museum and gift shop, then down the lawn to the viewing area. A slightly hazy valley vista greeted me, miles and miles of fuzzy green trees looking like a northern wonderland.

Eventually I returned to Bee, and as I was situating my things to return to the road, a pair of bikers pulled in beside me, one of them on an F800GSA.

"I love your bike!" I said before he had even killed the engine. He removed his helmet, smiled, and thanked me. A woman dismounted from an R1100RT beside him and came to join us. Nerdy bike talk ensued for quite a while as we discussed the various features and farkles of our rides and compared notes on the Parkway.

Back on the road a few minutes later, it didn't take me long to decide that the Blue Ridge is one of my favorite roads. It has the deserted peacefulness of the Natchez Trace, a jacket of deep dark northern woods, and the hilly twisty terrain that makes a great motorcycle road with a blessed lack of decreasing-radius turns. I flew along, working the corners and enjoying the scenery in the straights. Every few minutes I encountered a slow car, passed, and continued on my way.

After a while my desire for coffee made itself important by way of a headache, and I stopped at Skyland and got a latte and a lemon-lavender muffin (a great idea, unfortunately poorly executed). On a patio beside the building, a man was playing the hammer dulcimer and talking to a small crowd about folk music between songs. I sat on a wall and devoured my brunch while listening to him play. I never would have thought that the phrases "rock out" and "hammer dulcimer" belonged in the same building, but this gentleman proved me wrong. He played with a passion that gave me a new interest in a style of music I've been ignoring for many years.

He finished his set by playing Amazing Grace on the flute, and I finished my coffee and took my leave. As I was saddling up, one of the bikers I had met in the group earlier pulled in and said hello. He was riding a Goldwing trike, his lady passengering, and he had a paunchy belly and a sagging lower lip.

"Rick was forlorn that he didn't get to chat more with you," he said.

"Oh?" I said.

"Well he's a young single man and, you know the story." He shook his head a little bit and I swear the two hairs he had left muttered something about whippersnappers. "They want to ride so fast," he continued, "And I said, I'm not going to enjoy my ride trying to keep up with you. So I'll just see you at the end."

I nodded and wished him a good ride, thinking I was definitely in the category of riders who would ruin his fun. A few minutes down the road, I found a car moving slowly because it was being held up by three bikers moving slowly. It was the old man's friends.

I debated passing the car, but didn't want to get stuck trying to pass the riders, so I slowed my roll for a while and hoped they would pull off. The third rider wasn't quite keeping up with the first two, and I passed him and the car when the road opened into two lanes.

The opportunity was brief, though, and the lanes merged again a few hundred feet along, leaving me in the middle of someone else's pack.

The second rider spotted my predicament and motioned me forward in the next passing zone. I went around him and then got stuck again as a car came the other way. I did several miles sandwiched between riders 1 and 2 while rider 2 tailgated me obnoxiously. I wasn't sure if he was annoyed with my location and desire for speed or if he just felt that was a generally appropriate following distance. Finally I saw my opportunity, and I opened the throttle and roared past rider 1. I waved, then lost sight of the group around the next curve and never saw them again.

The Waterfall

I pulled off at Fall Hollow and took a hike. With Rogue in mind, I climbed the waterfall.

Tupelo and Tony

In Tupelo, I exited the Trace to find lunch and a library. I ate at a Waffle House for the first time ever - they're one of those famous names I've never experienced because they keep their business out of New England. It was...waffle. No really, the food was pretty bad. At least the servers were friendly, but it wasn't any better than the "free hot breakfast!" at the hotel in Vegas.

At the Trace Visitor Center, I made a stop on the recommendation of a park employee. I parked behind a pair of motorcycles and greeted the riders, a pair of gentlemen from Tennessee who were taking a week to jaunt around the area. They recommended I make time to do the Blue Ridge Parkway, and then the younger one asked if I would mind a prayer for the trip. I said I wouldn't mind at all.

"Father?" he prompted the older man, and we removed our various hats and goggles and bowed our heads. He said a nice prayer for safety, drivers paying attention, and no deer in the road, and we finished with an amen.

As I replaced my goggles, the first man asked me, "So have you been saved? Are you a Christian?" I'd known this was going to happen - you can't expect to visit the South and not have someone try to save your soul - but I didn't expect it from a pair of bikers.

"I don't have a denomination," I answered.

"You should think about it," he told me, while Father nodded in agreement. "Someday we are going to be judged."

I told him I would think on it and bid them a good day.

Let me say before I tell this next story that if you're wondering why I got myself into this situation, it's because I'm determined to say "yes" to the opportunity of random experiences on the road, rather than cutting myself off, talking to no one, and potentially missing out on awesome new things. Not all new things will be awesome, but you can't ever know in advance.

Late in the afternoon, I made a brief stop at one of the Indian Mounds sites.

I chatted with another traveler, who recommended I visit Memphis, and then left. I had my earplugs in and was getting back on the bike when someone else addressed me and asked where I was going. I removed the ears, returned to standing, and answered. He offered me a bottle of water, which I refused because I had no more room for keeping such things. Then he offered again, and again, until I finally took it to put him out of his misery. When I told him which campground I was looking for, he offered to show me another, better one, and I accepted. At least I couldn't get lost if I was following him.

"Hey," he said as I was getting on the bike. "You play pool?"

I said that I did, although not well, and I'd be happy to go play a game with him.

At the Piney Grove campground, run by the Army Corps of Engineers, the guy whose name may have been Tony hung around while I reserved a spot. I made note that he could well be making note of all the information I gave to the campground host, including my full name, home address, and phone number. Tony requested that I be given a site by the water, then accompanied me to my assigned site to look around. I refused to set up my tent, since I don't leave things around and then wander off. He argued that they were perfectly safe, and I said they were staying on the bike and we should go play pool.

He asked if I was hungry, and I said yes, and then I asked where there was pool, because weren't we in the middle of nowhere? He told me the table was in his house, which was nearby, and I paused and thought about it. The ways in which this could go badly were so obvious, but he seemed like he just wanted to help, so I decided to take a flyer. I said I'd follow him to his house, and he said he could drive, and I said no way. The bike comes with me. I didn't want to be at his mercy when I decided it was time to take my leave. He looked at me like I was a little nuts, and in response I started my engine. On the way out of the main gate, I stopped to tell the guard that if I wasn't back by 10, when they closed the gate, that he should call the cops.

Tony's house was nearby, also on the lake, and I was relieved to find it in a neighborhood and not alone in the woods. I parked the bike behind his truck, snuck my pepper spray into my pocket with my phone, made sure my knife was secure in my other pocket, and followed him inside.

He made hamburgers, and we watched the news and chatted while we ate them. He had an ex wife and two grown children and lived alone with three dogs. After dinner, he made mixed drinks of Gatorade and vodka, and we played pool.

After eight games, we were tied, and he wanted to bet on the tiebreaker. The eyebrow he raised when I asked what we were betting told me it would soon be time to leave.

"Let's start with a hug and see what happens." I gave him a bro-style hug, complete with a violent sportsmanlike pat on the back. We played, I lost, and he told me how beautiful I was. I said it was time to leave and thanked him for dinner. He went for another hug and tried to turn it into a makeout, and I presented him my cheek and then pushed him away. He resisted until I pushed harder.

"You've made up your mind, then," he said with a questioning inflection.

"Yes. Good night. Thank you for a nice evening." We stepped out, he pointed the way around the cul-de-sac so I could turn around, and I left.

On my way back into camp, I stopped at the guard hut and told the man I was back safely. He bid me a good night and I went to set up my camp.

My tent was uprighted and I was inserting the sleeping pad into it when I saw a black pickup come down the lane and then pull into my drive. I grabbed the mace, which was still on me, and got ready for the worst.

"Don't freak out," Tony said, hopping out of the cab and opening the tailgate. "I just came to bring you firewood." I wanted to tell him where he could stick his firewood, but I conjured a few more moments of patience and kept an eye on him while he unloaded it. When he tried to light a fire, I stopped him, saying I'd prefer to have it in the morning.

"I was hoping to light it for you," he said, sounding somewhat put out, and I stopped just short of telling him I'm a fucking fire performer and I can light my own fucking fire. He didn't need to know anything else about me, particularly anything he might find interesting.

"Do you want to stay at my house tonight?" he asked, and I almost smacked him. "No expectations, I just thought you might like a real bed and some air conditioning."

Dude, I've paid for my site, my tent is waiting for me, and it's seventy fucking degrees outside.

"I prefer camping," I said, and he threw up his hands and left.

Alone in the dark, my paranoia decided he was going to get his boat and come sneak up on my dock when he thought I was asleep. I made sure my tent was at a good angle for visibility, left the fly off for more of the same, and slept with my mace and knife, after texting his license plate number to Abel and Sheila.

Fortunately, a beautiful morning arrived without incident, proving that he was just awkward and not actually malicious. It took me several hours to scrub out the annoyance he left in my head, though. The Trace is peaceful driving, which is great if you want to be alone with your thoughts, and not very helpful if you're hoping for a distraction.

Finding Traces

I seriously considered making a swing in the direction of New Orleans. Alex has recommended it, Sarah lives there now and invited me, and Gypsy also invited me; but it would've added a minimum of three days to my trip, and I need to get home someday. I think it will be its own trip in the future.

I returned to my neighbor's campsite in the morning to wash my dishes, and he offered me a cup of coffee. I accepted, and sat and enjoyed good, strong, non-instant coffee with him and his wife and their two Yorkshire Terriers. He told me a secret to camping in the west, which I wished I had known two weeks ago: Bureau of Land Management. Apparently their land is extensive, public, and free to camp on. If you go to a maintained campsite, it's not free but still cheap. He gave me an extra guide to Texas camping that he had lying around, and showed me his map of the western half of the States with all the BLM land marked. It was impressive, and I'm looking forward to planning a trip around it.

From Kisatchie, I continued east toward Natchez, Mississippi. I crossed the river a little after noon and wandered until I found a found a casino. I didn't want the contents of the casino, particularly, but it overlooked the water and I figured I could get lunch and a decent drink, to make up for the one I poured out the night before.

What kind of casino has cheap food and no cocktails? This one. I waited twenty minutes to sit on the porch for five, munching on fried catfish and watching the expanse of brown water go by. Distinctly underwhelmed, I returned to my bike and went to the Natchez Visitor Center. I found a map of the Trace, but it didn't tell me how to get there, so I got thoroughly lost and then Googled it. Finally I found it with the help of technology.

The Trace is gorgeous. There are no commercial enterprises allowed, either in the traffic or on the roadside. There is very little signage and very few exits available, the road is never more than two lanes, and the lack of distractions are perfect for enjoying the beautiful scenery. It pretty much all looks like this...

I stopped at Sunken Trace and found myself in spiderland. I stepped carefully, and managed to avoid getting tangled in any webs.

Nederlands and Rocky Mountain National Park

I waited until Monday to do Rocky Mountain National Park, having been warned that the crowds on weekends can make the experience a frustrating one. Steve recommended I take the Peak to Peak Highway to the park instead of fighting commuter traffic through Denver and Boulder, so I headed west and then north into the mountains.

The first town I came to was Central City, a cheesy casino town with an overly-perfect downtown area that begged for touristy photos.

I put on my rain jacket for warmth, having failed to realize before I left the house that the mountains are much colder than the valleys. On the way out of town, I stopped again to see this train.

The ride up 119 provided plenty of these signs, and even better ones that look like a sideways S and say 25mph or even 15mph. Those, however, tend to be in places that are too dangerous to stop for photos.

Three miles out of Nederlands the altitude started to get to me, so I stopped in town and took a stroll to clear my head.

The mining museum was closed but had lots of equipment on display outside. Rogue, ask me for the full set of these photos later - I took them with you in mind.

I spotted this adorable little guy in a gift shop, and if he hadn't been so large and potentially breakable, he would've come home with me

As I got farther north, the views got more and more interesting...

Somewhere along the way I took a spontaneous turn toward the river, just to see what was down there.

Back on 119, now looking for lunch, I spotted some beautiful architecture.

After lunch and gas in Estes Park, I found the National Park. The initial view from the bottom is no better than those from the highway.

But as you go up Trail Ridge Road, it gets better...

...and better.

It also gets snowy, which is startling when it's August and your home is at sea level. The fat flakes splashing and melting on my visor made me take another look at the road, but I could tell that it wasn't really that cold. The water on the road stayed liquid.

As I came up into the area where the mountain drops away and the shoulder falls off to apparent infinity on either side of the road, the wind whipped up and started shoving me around. I cheated into the center of my lane so that a sudden gust wouldn't blow me into oncoming traffic. The wind seared right up my sinuses and into the back of my brain until I had an ice cream headache.

Eventually I made it to the Alpine Visitors' Center. The road's highest point is over 12,000 feet, and as I pulled into the Center parking lot, Hades stalled out. Some extra throttle got her to start again, and for the rest of the way around the parking lot and back down the mountain, I acted like one of those obnoxious Shiny riders who rev their engines at stoplights to point out that they're riding a motorcycle. You know, for the blind drivers in the area.