In the Heat of Dixie

Day 15
States: 43
Miles 8633

Touring bikers watch the Weather Channel like Grandpas watch Fox News.  We demand it in our hotels.  If the hotel does not have the Weather Channel we don't stay there.  We are a demanding bunch.  As most bikers do, I flipped on TWC when I arose to see what lay before me for the day.  The talk was all about the heat wave gripping the nation.  Sweltering heat in Minnesota.  Triple digit temperatures in Rochester, New York.  Heat advisories had been issued for 23 states.  Oddly, there was one small patch among the glaring red covering the entire continental U. S. - my intended path for the day.  The predicted high in Pensacola was 91 degrees, a full ten degrees cooler than Rochester.  Who would have thought you'd have to leave Rochester and go to Pensacola to cool off?  I felt incredibly fortunate.  Then I stepped outside my room.  Oh my god!  The humidity was like a wall that I had to fight through.  I carried the tour pack and put it on the bike and my clothing was almost completely soaked.  I was going to ride through this?  I had no choice.  I put on five layers of sun block, finished packing up and departed.  Once I was moving, it wasn't bad.  It certainly wasn't comfortable, but it was bearable.  The fact that moss was growing under my armpits didn't bother me in the least.

I left Florida and set out for Alabama along the Gulf Coast.  I gassed up at a BP station, and it occurred to me this was the company that had nearly destroyed all means of commerce in this area of the country not so long ago.  People didn't seem to be holding it against them, as the station was crowded with patrons.  The reason soon became obvious to me - they had ice.  Lots of it.  I watched one man pick up four bags and put them in his truck.  Ice is big business in this area in the summer.  Signs on all of the drink machines warn that you must pay if you take only ice, some have signs indicating they're out of ice.  I wondered how anyone survived here before refrigeration was made possible.  Maybe they didn't have the Weather Channel to tell them how miserable they were going to be. 

My path took me along Interstate 10, but only for a short time.  I soon found myself on Highway 98, a four lane highway lined with churches, mobile home sales lots, and fireworks and bait shops.  These are evidently the three main industries in this part of Alabama (bait and fireworks shops count as one).  The churches are amazing - they're everywhere!  At one point I  saw three of them side by side.  How does one decide?  I even saw one mobile home that was a church that also sold fireworks and bait. 

After a short time, the border for MIssissippi appeared and Herm, Sigourney, Beatrice and I all crossed into another world.  It wasn't apparent at first.  Gone were the mobile home lots, churches and fireworks/bait shops, replaced with Dollar General stores and Waffle Houses.  They are distributed roughly three each per mile.  

Soon we came upon a Rite Aid.  I had been looking for an office supply store or a drug store to get some highlighters.  I had been awarded the honor of carrying the brand new official Roadglide.org flag on its first extended journey - another story that will be addressed separately, but I needed highlighters to indicate the path that the flag had taken while under my care.  I spent a bit more time in the store than planned, mostly because it had air conditioning.  When I went back out to climb back on Herm I suddenly realized that I had made a horrible mistake.  I had forgotten to cover the seat.  My custom made C & C seat contains gel, which is quite soothing to my considerable fanny, but there is one problem with gel.  Once it is heated it cools at approximately the same rate as spent nuclear fuel.  Having no alternatives I climbed on, hoping the punishment wouldn't be too bad.  It wasn't.  For the first 15 seconds, that is.  After that it felt like roman candles were going off in my back pockets.  I couldn't take it any more.  I decided that even though I wasn't hungry, lunch sounded like a grand idea.  I found a shady spot at a Pizza Hut, covered the seat anyway, and hoped that the Levi's curly-Q pattern hadn't seared into the cheeks of my posterior.  Fortunately it worked, and I think I minimized the damage.  To me, that is.  The gel I'm not so sure about.

With the normal butt temperature requirement restored I set out on Highway 49, running from Hattiesburg to Jackson.  What I discovered is possibly the most fascinating and bizarre section of highway in the nation.  I hadn't noticed this before stopping for lunch.  I had been listening to an audio book on my iPhone, Seal Team Six,  since I had left Pensacola rather than listening to music, as I usually do.  It's an autobiography by former Seal Team Six member, Howard Watson, and it is a fascinating book, and I highly recommend it.  The problem is it drew me in so much that I think I was oblivious to all of the wonder that lay along this road.  It's the kind of road that makes motorcyclists cringe.  The speed limit is 65, but it is anything but limited access.  Cross streets are abundant, oncoming left turns abound, and stop lights bring you from 65 mph (or more - much more) to zero without warning.  Despite the copious dangers, this stretch is a must for guys like me.  There is enough material along this route to provide a lifetime of blogging.  I know I merely caught the tip of the iceberg, but here's a sampling of what I was able to recall at a glance:

• A man dressed as Uncle Sam, walking in the median.  He waved at me.  I waved back.  Thank goodness he didn't point to me and tell me he wanted me. 
• A hand painted sign at a house indicating "Gators and Pit Bulls for sale."  Sure to be the warm cuddly type of neighbor.  I thought it would have been hilarious to put "Poodles" on the sign with an "X" through it, but sadly I failed to follow through on that.  I am such a wuss.
• A house with a yard sale sign.  The yard had only confederate flags available.
• A catfish restaurant constructed in the shape of a giant igloo.
• A lawn ornament shop proudly featuring the requisite pink flamingos.  And not as a joke.

Sadly, I was unable to photograph any of these wonderful observations.  But things were coming at me so fast I had to pull over at, where else, a Waffle House, to write down all that I had seen.  I probably forgot a couple, but that just makes me want to come back and take my time going down this most amazing stretch of road.  Some day I'll be back.  Between Highway 50 in West Virginia and Highway 49 in Mississippi, I can't think of any more fascinating place in the world.  Why would people want to go to Machu Picchu when they could go to West Virginia and Mississippi?  Let's keep that between us, too, OK?

Soon HIghway 49 ended and it was back to the Interstate, I-20, where I had my most exciting moment (I hope) of the adventure.  I was cruising along, about half-way between Jackson and Shreveport, LA, happily listening to my favorite, "Muskrat Love," by the Captain and Tennille.   OK, maybe not.  Probably AC/DC.  I was relaxed and comfortable.  I came upon a "Wide Load" convoy consisting of a pair of trucks pulling two halves of a mobile home - probably a future church - flanked by pilot trucks in the front and the back.  They were not traveling very fast, and as I came up on them I pulled into the left lane to pass.  As I got along side the rear trailer I suddenly saw an entire tire fly off of the trailer.  And when I say fly, I mean fly!  It was literally launched straight up into the air, the whole tire, I estimate it rose about 40 feet.  I didn't have the time or interest to see if the wheel was still inside of the tire.  I watched in the mirror as the tire flew over the rear pilot truck and bounced in the middle of the right lane and then I lost sight of it.  Fortunately I didn't see any cars suddenly veer off of the road.  Immediately the entire convoy pulled to the side.  I was surprised at how quickly the alert was relayed between all four of the vehicles.  I was just thankful that I wasn't delayed by five or ten seconds or I might not be here to bring you this story.  I pulled off at the next exit to take a little break.  And to change my shorts. 

The rest of the trip was, thankfully, uneventful. We got to Shreveport, turned north and knocked out both Arkansas and (accidentally, while looking for a place to stay) Texas and decided to take a little break.  An air conditioner suddenly sounded very attractive. 

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A man in a wheel chair on the side of the interstate - what do you do when your special transport van breaks down?
• Uncle Sam walking in the median
• Yard sign advertising gators and pit bulls
• Yard  sale featuring only "Stars and Bars"
• Giant igloo catfish restaurant

Six State Massacre

Day 14
States: 39
Miles 8090

I arose in Pikeville at what I thought was an early hour.  The Harley Dresser folks were already up, drinking coffee and cleaning their bikes, confirming my suspicions - old people.  Many of the bikes had been covered up when I arrived the previous evening, and the old people were removing the covers and wiping away moisture.  I felt like Quasimodo with what was now five layers of road grime covering Herm sitting amongst the other gleaming machines.  Sitting about 30 feet away were three Ultras that had just been washed with great care by their owners.  I had to take a picture.

 
Each of these bikes had more chrome the Elvis' bathroom.  I was mesmerized.  As I looked forlornly at my poor, dirty Road Glide an elderly couple approached me.  I tried to hide Herm behind me and said hi, asking them about the group that I had stumbled onto.  They explained that about 100 Harley Dressers were having their national rally at the hotel, and they filled me in a bit about the organization.  It was formed back in the 70's when there were no organized groups for the dressers.  You don't hear the term dresser among Harley folks these days.  Now it's Ultras, Road Kings, and best of all, Road Glides - models that Harley seems to want to distinguish from each other among the Touring model of bikes.  The couple told me that at one time the group had a membership consisting of up to 3000, but that had been whittled down to only around 400 or so, having been rendered almost obsolete upon the formation of HOG, the Harley Owners Group.  Well, that, and the natural order of things, i.e., many of them have passed onto that great highway in the sky.  I guess Herm wasn't so disgusting after all, for they gave me a card and invited me to check into membership in the organization.  Had I known of this group before I could have officially hit two Touring model rallies in one trip, the first where I was one of the oldest, the second where I would have been one of the youngest.  Opportunities lost.  I thanked them and set off on my Day 14 quest. 

It was relatively cool in Pikeville, meaning it was something less than the temperature on the surface of the sun.  I put on my Deadwood Harley hoodie and hit the road.  Beatrice guided us in the direction toward Tennessee and the Carolinas and soon we were back on the twisty, turny highway.  However, I was now rested and it was once again great fun to buzz throughout the curves.  The scene was very strange, though.  Wispy clouds hung among the mountains and in the valleys, creating an eerie, ghostly effect.  

I guessed that this is what the Smokey Mountains are like.  I think I was near the Smokies, even though I was not yet in Tennessee/Carolina.  I've heard the Smokies are great riding, and I've always wanted to check that out.  I decided that this was just like that, and therefore crossed that goal off my list.  Our little secret, OK? 

Herm, Sigourney, Beatrice and I cruised down Country Music Highway, named so, I decided, in honor of all of the people along the highway who so closely resembled Conway Twitty.  Present day Conway, that is.  As did the women.  It seemed inappropriate as my speakers blared out AC/DC.  So I cranked it up even more.  In no time we crossed into Tennessee.  And in no time after that, North Carolina.  And right after that, South Carolina.  States were falling like Rupert Murdoch newspapers.  Into Georgia we cruised, where Beatrice took me right through the heart of Atlanta.  Past the campus of Georgia Tech University, the Olympic Flame, and the Coca-Cola headquarters, providers of my pending comfortable retirement.  Traffic was reasonable, the weather was great, and the roads were superb.  Until we got south of Atlanta, that is.  That's when things got a little busy as I spent more than a little time dodging shredded tire shrapnel.  Apparently the road surface in this area is a little rougher than other areas we had covered previously.  Large and small chunks of rubber were everywhere.  It looked like Richard Childress had invaded Kyle Bush's garage area (note: if you are not a NASCAR fan don't try to understand that last part, but trust me, it's really funny). 

As we crossed the border into Alabama, we were welcomed with a sign proclaiming the state as "Alabama the Beautiful."  And I had to agree.  There's something about Alabama that's just really pretty.  The roads are pretty, the signs are pretty, even the factories are pretty.  And, oh, the license plates.  The states of South Carolina and Alabama without doubt lead the nation in special interest license plates, but Alabama has to take the cake.  They're like snow flakes, no two are alike.  There are Wild Turkey Foundation plates.  There are "Save the Saturn V" plates, and there are "Sons of Confederate Veterans" plates.  If there's a special interest, Alabama has a plate for it.  I think I even saw a "Polka Dot Unicorn" special interest plate.  Police don't need a license number, all they need is the special interest.  I've never seen anything like it.

It was getting late, and I tried to see if I could make it into Florida.  That would give me six states in one day, a record performance.  To my great surprise and good fortune I passed into the Central Time Zone.  Hey, another hour!  I decided I could make Florida - Pensacola.  The Redneck Riviera.  Before I knew it, Florida, and hundreds more shredded tires passed under Herm's wheels.  I rolled into Pensacola, and promptly got lost.  Beatrice guided me to a hotel in the downtown area.  I rolled up to see if a room was available.  I was lucky, there were several available.  The clerk gave me directions to the room, and I got back on the bike, heading for the room.  And once again got lost.  I rolled right past the entire hotel complex.  I was prevented from taking the next turn toward the hotel, because it was a one-way road.  So I went to the next road, which was a one-way in the desire direction.  My first attempt to turn back toward the hotel was thwarted by another wrong-direction one-way.  The next intersection turned me in the direction away from the hotel.  Lost again.  If I had only dropped bread crumbs.  I summoned Beatrice again, and she cooly guided me through the maze of one-way streets and in a few hours I was back at the hotel.  I decided to just park Herm at the office and walk to the room. 


Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A Trans-Am, Smokey and the Bandit vintage, with "Antique Car" license plates.  That was my first new car - am I that old?
• A two-horse team pulling a man on a buggy - in the median of a four-lane highway
• A hearse speeding by me at an estimated 80 mph - who knew they went that fast?

Unusual city names seen on the road today:

• Big Otter
• Bat Cave
• Fair Play

Take Me Home, Country Road

Day 13
States: 33
Miles 7372

What do you think of when someone mentions West Virginia to you?  Grimy coal miners getting extricated from mine disasters?  Hillbillies bootlegging home made moonshine?  West Virginia often gets a bum rap, viewed by many as a backwards population.  Thanks to my day spent traveling through it, when someone mentions West Virginia to me, I will think of beautiful wooded mountain scenery, warm, friendly people, and some of the best motorcycling roads in the nation.  I was not planning on spending a great deal of time in West Virginia when it came time to resume the 48 state chase.  As I prepared to depart Gettysburg, regretful that Shark Week had come to an end, I looked at my maps that had me zipping into Maryland, blasting through West Virginia, and into Kentucky all via interstate highways.  Once again, a friend rescued me from the languor of the interstate.  One of the other Shark Week attendees, WV-Glider, was heading in the same general direction as I.  As a resident of West Virginia, he had an intimate knowledge of where not to go; I-81.  He suggested HIghway 50, an alternative that takes a little longer, but winds through the Appalachian Mountains, offering a much more pleasing riding experience.  I thought for, oh, about a half a second and said I'd love to join him.

Ron and his wife, Marilyn, and friend Grant, presently on a Road King, but sure to be a Road Glide owner in the near future, led me back up Route 30 via the route that we had taken from Pittsburgh as part of Hutmo's Lincoln Highway Tour.  A billboard along the way caught my attention.  I didn't have time to take a picture of it, but as I spotted it in the distance I could see that it said, "Time To Say Goodbye," then noted that it was an add for a Hospice Facility.  "Wow," I thought, "they don't mince words here in Pennsylvania at all!"  I was wondering if caskets doubled as beds and if they served formaldehyde for dessert with that kind of attitude.  It was then that I noticed small letters in parentheses just before those large words stating "We had."  Oh.  Not a whole lot better, really, but the add must have worked - it got my attention.  I wonder how many conversations go something like, "Hey, Grandma.  It's time to say goodbye!"

We soon found ourselves on Route 50, a terrific curvy, twisty, expanse of highway that spreads across the state through mountainous terrain.  It was a beautiful day, and traffic was relatively light, allowing us to cruise through the curves at will. It was the best riding I'd had since New England.  I was beginning to fall in love with West Virginia.  Soon it was time for a little break.  We pulled into a roadside station with a suitable convenience store and the necessary facilities.  It was then that I spotted this:

Future Banjo Player?

OK, I thought.  That was just an isolated event.  West Virginia doesn't really have people like that.  That could have been anywhere.  Like Arkansas.  Back we went onto Highway 50.  More incredible scenery.  We passed through lush, green forests, saw expansive views of the mountains, leaned the bikes into turns seemingly every five seconds.  It was an amazing road.  Soon it was time to stop again, this time to get some gas.  And I saw this:

Who puts them in pellet form?

How can you not trust a place with a cow on the roof?

Hmmm.  OK, maybe I was giving the people of West Virginia a little too much credit.  Every stereotype ever laid on West Virginia and its people is apparently firmly cemented in fact.  I apologize for trying to change your mind.  Doesn't matter.  The road was worth every goofy character present, and I highly suggest that if you are in the area, bypass the interstate and take Highway 50.  You will not be bored!

After HIghway 50, we had no choice but to get back on the interstate.  In this case, though, the interstate was anything but boring and flat.  I-79, running from Clarksburg to Charleston, is the national highway system's 70 mph version of the Tail of the Dragon.  Turn after turn after turn, up and down mountain terrain, it is without doubt one of the most fun interstates in the nation.  Our day was all twisties, all the time! 

Soon it came time for Ron, Marilyn, and Grant to exit the interstate and I continued on my way toward Charleston.  I had been in contact with old friend Terry, who was on his way from Ohio to Kentucky.  He and I had gone to high school together, and we ended up going to the same college, and we even roomed across from and next to each other in successive years.  We hadn't seen each other on many years, but we were both in the same area at the same time and we were trying to arrange a meeting spot somewhere along our concurrent paths.  We had settled on Morehead, Kentucky, but due to my screwing around, I was much too late to enable a compatible meeting.  Our rendezvous preempted, it occurred to me that it might not be necessary, now, to travel all the way to Morehead.  A more direct route through the eastern part of Kentucky towards Tennessee and the Carolinas might enable me to shave some time and distance off of my route.  Out came the Harley Touring Handbook and Beatrice, the moody and misleading GPS.  I spotted Pikeville, Kentucky, in the Handbook map.  It presented a much more direct route and seemed large enough to feature a variety of hotels.  It was getting late and the distance looked like a good one for stopping.  I punched up Pikeville on the GPS.  Hey, only 84 miles away!  I told Beatrice that this was where we were heading.  She thought and calculated and said, "OK, let's go this way!"  But one glance at the distance caught my attention.  Instead of 84 miles, it was now 118 miles.  Hmm, how did 84 miles suddenly become 118?  Then it dawned on me, that the first distance is crow-flying, while the driving distance is the second.  And a difference of 34 miles could only mean one thing - twisties!  Ordinarily I would have been thrilled.  At this point I was getting a title tired. 

I turned toward Pikeville and sure enough, more of the same terrain.  Lean it hard left, hard right, on the throttle to get up the hill, downshift going down the hill and don't overspeed the corner. Fun, but work.  I began to pray for a straight stretch of highway, but went unrewarded.  It was becoming clear to me that there are virtually no such sections of road in Kentucky or West Virginia.  My bike had spent a total of 90 seconds in the upright position for the day - and 60 seconds of that were spent starting up and backing up.  My wrists ached, my thumbs were sore, and my sense of balance was shot.  I had only done 483 miles for the day, but I was exhausted.  Twelve hours of twisties had sucked the life out of me.  Finally, I arrived in Pikeville.  Beatrice told me there was a hotel right around the corner, and when I turned, what did I see?  About 100 Harley's in the parking lot.  Bikers!  Figuring I was among my people I decided to see if I could get a room.  All that was available was smoking, but I didn't care.  As long as I didn't have to lean left and lean right to get into the room, I was happy.  It turns out that the crowd is part of a Harley Dressers organization.  Biker types were sitting everywhere around the hotel, having discussions and drinking beer.  I didn't bother trying mingle with them.  I never did trust those biker types.

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• Aggressive hospice billboard
• Little girl with Billy Bob pacifier
• Pickup truck towing a golf cart.

Shark Week

Days 10, 11, 12
States: 31
Miles: 6889

Days 10 through 12 were spent at Shark Week in Gettysburg, PA.  It was an amazing time with many of the roadglide.org folks coming together for the first national rally.  Updates on that will come later, as I have so much to report on and so many photos.  For now the adventure will pick up with the resumption of the quest for 48 states, which came back to life on Day 13, July 17.