The Trace through Land Between the Lakes offers scenic picnic areas for a mid-ride break.
These days, I’ve become so enthralled by all the great motorcycle roads around the world and on my bucket list that I forget about the ones close to home. For this ride, I retraced steps from my early riding days with a 140‑mile Tennessee motorcycle loop around my hometown of Dover, which is located on the Cumberland River about 30 miles west of Clarksville and, as the crow flies, a little over 60 miles northwest of Nashville.
We started out at the Dyers Creek boat ramp, just across the river from downtown Dover. Then we rode across U.S. Route 79 and onto Bumpus Mills Road. This road has some of the best curves of the loop – the perfect way to get our blood pumping at the beginning of the ride.
When we got to the end of the road at the junction with State Route 120, we turned north and stopped at the family‑owned Bumpus Meals Diner. We had hoped to pop in for a bite of their handmade desserts and a cup of coffee, but the diner was closed that day as the family and staff were enjoying the Thanksgiving weekend.
My husband, Jake, and I revisited many of the roads we explored as high schoolers with fresh driving licenses.
Oh well, onwards we went. The next stretch of the ride took us into Kentucky on State Route 139. It can be tempting to pick up the speed on this road, but we knew we couldn’t get too carried away. Much of this land is farmed by Amish communities, and you never know when you’ll run up behind a horse‑drawn buggy just over the next hill.
An optional spur is to take a right on State Route 164 and visit the Oak Ridge Country Store. We love their homemade cheeses, deli sandwiches, and local canned and pickled foods. There are other stops along the road where you can purchase smoked meats, honey, fresh produce, and other goods.
We continued our Tennessee motorcycle loop north until we came to U.S. Route 68, where we turned west for 15 miles and rode over the Cumberland River and into Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area. We turned south at the Woodlands Trace National Scenic Byway, also known as The Trace (not to be confused with the Natchez Trace Parkway, which runs between Nashville and Natchez, Mississippi).
State Route 232 has nice sweepers and little traffic, allowing us to ride at our own pace without having to worry much about other drivers.
The Trace is a beautiful road that runs right through the center of LBL. Along the way are the Golden Pond Visitors Center and Planetarium, picnic areas, a bison range, campgrounds, the Turkey Bay OHV Area, and the Homeplace 1850s Working Farm and Living History Museum.
We continued through LBL and back toward Dover. At the end of The Trace, we turned west on U.S. Route 79 and popped in at Brien Dill’s Piggly Wiggly. I worked at this grocery store throughout high school and college and still enjoy stopping by to visit with past coworkers and the owner, Brien, who rides a BMW R 1250 GS Adventure and loves chatting about motorcycles.
My first employer, Brien Dill, always has a smile and loves chatting about bikes.
Down the highway about 6 miles, we turned south onto State Route 232, also known as the “Baby Dragon.” Unlike the famous 11‑mile road in East Tennessee with a similar name, the Baby Dragon doesn’t have tight, technical curves, but it has plenty of long sweepers with good visibility. By the time we got to the end of the Baby Dragon, we were getting hungry, so we stopped at Southernaire Motel & Restaurant for a meatloaf plate with turnip greens and black‑eyed peas.
Cruising down the “Baby Dragon.”
After a tasty lunch, we continued east through the towns of Stewart, Tennessee Ridge, and Erin until we got to Cumberland City, where candy‑striped steam stacks from the TVA power plant stretch up into the sky. We rode down to the ferry, paid 75 cents (tickets are $1 for out‑of‑state motorcycles), and hopped over the river.
Southernaire has an extensive menu, but you can’t go wrong with the meatloaf plate.
The last leg of this route goes through Indian Mound, the part of Stewart County where I grew up. Maybe I’m biased, but this is my favorite portion of this favorite ride. The roads through the Mound rise up over ridges and snake down along creeks and past fields of cattle. The last road is Old Highway 79, the curviest road of the loop.
The TVA power plant employs many local residents, including my dad, and the ferry just south of the plant offers a quick jump across the river.
At the end of Old Highway 79, you’ll find yourself back on U.S. Route 79 and just a stone’s throw away from the boat ramp where we began this route. Revisiting these roads and stops that have always been a part of my life gave me a renewed appreciation for my community and town. Sure, there are places in the world with more dramatic views and more exciting roads, but at the end of the day, these are the roads I’ll always come back to.
My fully loaded Kawasaki Versys-X 300 was a trooper on this Kentucky motorcycle ride.
It’s funny how sometimes the best parts of a motorcycle trip have nothing to do with the destination or even the motorcycle. One such moment on a recent Kentucky motorcycle ride involved me relaxing in a hammock under the shade of a tarp, a little sunburnt and a lot exhausted, dozing off for a much-needed nap.
Why was I so exhausted? Hours of walking – first through the woods amidst sinkholes and springs, then deep underground at Mammoth Cave National Park.
From my home in northern Kentucky, I rode south to Frankfort, the state capital, which has a historic downtown reminiscent of many of the small Kentucky cities that punctuate the farmland and curvy roads in this area.
To fortify myself for the ride to Mammoth Cave, I stopped at Main Street Diner, a ’50s-themed restaurant with checkered floors, colorful decor, and vinyl records in the jukebox. It serves a tasty and satisfying plate of biscuits and gravy, one of my favorite road foods. With historic buildings, colorful murals, and interesting shops and restaurants, Frankfort’s well-preserved downtown area is attractive and vibrant.
An hour and a half of riding through rolling hills landed me in Campbellsville. The day was quickly warming up, so I stopped at Harden Coffee to cool off with an iced chai latte and relax in the calm, quiet cafe.
After another hour of riding, I arrived at Mammoth Cave National Park’s visitor center – always my first stop on trips like this. I can’t count how many interesting trails, roads, and sightseeing opportunities I’ve discovered by speaking to the knowledgeable rangers at visitor centers in state and national parks. They know more than the internet and the brochures combined, and they’re more than happy to share their insights with curious travelers.
My campsite at Mammoth Cave National Park was surrounded by trees and felt pleasantly secluded.
With a marked-up map of treasures in hand, I arrived at my campsite and set up camp. My neighbor and his young daughter expressed their awe of how much gear I had fit in the 170-plus liters of storage space on my Kawasaki Versys-X 300. In campgrounds, people may stare, but they rarely talk to the odd solo woman on her motorcycle, so the conversation was welcome.
After the ride and setting up camp, I was too tired to venture far to find actual firewood. I purchased some compressed sawdust “logs” at the cute and convenient camp store nearby, allowing me to enjoy a campfire before bedtime.
Rok Straps are indispensable for securing cargo, such as when I needed to transport compressed sawdust “logs” from the store to my campsite.
Hiking Through the Forest and Touring Underground
First on my agenda was to hike some of the trails in Mammoth Cave National Park. While the park is best known for its extensive underground cave system, I had to give the trails aboveground a chance too.
Descending to the entrance of Mammoth Cave takes visitors to another world that’s as massive as its name implies.
With names like Sinkhole, Green River Bluffs, and Echo Springs, I was looking forward to seeing what unique features would exist on the trails in this area. Most of them were paved or gravel, which aren’t my favorite surfaces to hike on, but they’re accessible to most walkers – a benefit to anyone looking for an easy hike. I was able to view rock formations, sinkholes, and a spring that arises from within the cave system itself. I saw wildflowers exploding in bloom and several different vantage points of the Green River, which runs into the cave system (and whose eroding properties ultimately created the cave itself).
Soon after, I had the opportunity to take one of the many options for cave tours offered by the park. I chose the Extended Historic tour, a 2.25-hour hike through 2 miles of the main parts of Mammoth Cave. I’m glad I booked in advance because when I arrived, almost every tour for the day was sold out.
The inside of the cave greets you with both wide and tall passageways.
A blissful 54 degrees underground felt great after my sweaty, sunny hike to the visitor center, where the cave tours begin. Learning about the cave was fascinating. Mammoth Cave is the longest cave system in the world, with over 400 miles mapped and possibly more than 600 miles yet to be explored. Scientists and researchers uncover new passages nearly every day. Over thousands of years, the cave has been used by Native Americans, soldiers in the War of 1812, slaves, and even a failed tuberculosis clinic. Now its main purpose is to entertain and educate tourists who travel through its dark recesses.
After the tour, I rode into nearby Cave City, past dozens of billboards for other caves and attractions in the area. There were many options to choose from, but I was hungry, so I stopped at a restaurant called 5 Broke Girls. I am not exaggerating that they make the best onion rings I’ve ever tasted – and a mean patty melt too. I’ll stop there again when I’m in the area.
The patty melt and onion rings at 5 Broke Girls were amazing.
My next stop was Market KY, a bright and colorful shop with a fun assortment of candies and treats, as well as a wall of stickers and a myriad of T-shirt options. A few boutique sweets might have found their way into my saddlebag.
Overburdened on My Kentucky Motorcycle Ride
Back at camp, I was struggling. I was once told that every item you bring on a motorcycle camping trip is a burden. I never really understood this. If the item is useful and offers you shelter or sleep or sustenance, how could it be a burden?
I learned my lesson on this trip. With my new Givi luggage, it was easy to pack my bike to the gills. This exhausted me in two ways. For one, my kit was heavy, and this meant all my low-speed maneuvers felt sluggish and I was easily thrown off-balance. I hate dreading the process of parking or making a U-turn, preferring to be as nimble and light as possible.
In hindsight, while many of my camping items were nice to have, some of them weren’t necessary.
Secondly, unpacking and sorting through a pile of gadgets and trinkets to find that one spatula I brought or that collapsible bowl that I ended up forgetting to use when I simply ate out of the dehydrated food package was frustrating and time-consuming.
Finally, I was tired of zippers! Moving my wallet or keys from a zippered pocket of a jacket to a different zippered pocket of my tankbag and back again was tiresome, and I had to repeatedly double check where things were. I hate that panicked moment when you reach into a pocket and the item isn’t there, only to find it in a different pocket moments later.
I ended up going through the trusty things I always use and setting them out front and center, while putting superfluous items aside. This helped ease my frustration, and now that I understand the idea of items burdening us more than I did before, I will be packing much lighter next time.
This underground river has a small but beautiful dripping waterfall.
Back on the Road
It had been a minute since I had ridden more than just to a restaurant and back, and this was a Kentucky motorcycle ride after all. At the visitor center the day before, the ranger had shown me various roads on the map, so I set off to ride one of them: Mammoth Cave Parkway. The speed limit was only 35 mph, so there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to enthusiastically traverse the many curves. One thing I did enjoy, however, was the lovely drop in temperature in this area. It was a welcome reprieve from the hotter conditions elsewhere.
The curves of Mammoth Cave Parkway are fun to ride, but the 35-mph speed limit reduces the thrill.
The next day, I rode to Bowling Green, a bustling small city about 30 miles from Mammoth Cave National Park. I stopped in the historic downtown and enjoyed views of Fountain Square Park, which was surrounded by boutiques, a theater, and the Meltdown ice cream shop. Resistance to frozen treats is futile.
Fountain Square Park is in the heart of Bowling Green.
Meltdown offers house-made ice cream in unique flavors like brown sugar chocolate chip and dump cake (a Southern amalgamation of pineapple, cherries, yellow cake mix, and butter). I’ve had dump cake many times, and putting it in ice cream elevated it to new heights. I savored a sweet scoop on a bench near buzzing bumblebees that were enjoying their own treat of some purple flowers.
The Capitol, a historic theater in downtown Bowling Green, is across the street from Fountain Square Park.
Bowling Green is where Chevrolet Corvettes are produced, and it’s home to the National Corvette Museum. Although I had been to the NCM Motorsports Park racetrack, which is located across Interstate 65 from the museum, for motorcycle track days, I had never been inside the museum. I spent over an hour looking at exhibits, such as a cross-section of the third Corvette ever created, powerful racecars, the iconic Batmobile, and even the remnants of a sinkhole that happened at the museum in 2014.
The exterior of the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green features a sculpture of a classic ’Vette.
This natural disaster damaged eight Corvettes, one of which was estimated to be worth $750,000. While the damage had been cleaned up, markings on the floor showed the vast size of the sinkhole – over 40 feet wide – and a plexiglass panel on the floor showed the bottom of the sinkhole, 30 feet below my feet. Standing there was both eerie and exhilarating.
Before leaving, I ate at the museum’s restaurant, the Stingray Grill. It wasn’t your usual cafeteria-style grill but rather a swanky eatery with nice decor and even better food. I can add “blackberry bacon grilled cheese” to the list of delicious foods I’ve tried.
Corvette fans will love the depth and breadth of the museum’s exhibits.
Finding a Lost River
The final thing on my list for Bowling Green was what initially drew me to this area in the first place: the Lost River Cave. Although much smaller than Mammoth Cave, as its name implies, Lost River Cave has a river leading into it, and the owners run an underground boat tour.
A lost river is a waterway that flows into a cave or underground passageway. I was fascinated by the idea of floating into a cave, so I hopped into the small pontoon boat and listened to my charming tour guide tell the history of this cave.
The Lost Cave boat tour was a unique way to experience an underground river.
Having changed hands many times over the years, the cave’s worst fate was when it was filled with trash, and perhaps its best was when it was a secret nightclub during Prohibition. I was content with its current life as a touristy but fun and engaging tour. It was thrilling to duck under the low ceiling at the entrance to the cave and float along the dam inside that was built to keep the water in.
The next day, it was that bittersweet time to pack up and leave, thus ending this particular Kentucky motorcycle ride. I had a great experience at the national park and exploring Cave City and Bowling Green. I also enjoyed the downtime, especially that nap in my hammock on the day I ventured into Mammoth Cave. Over the short span of just a few days, I had hiked at ground level in forests and museums, walked underground in cool and dark caves, floated along a lost river, and even hovered 30 feet above a sinkhole. This trip had a little bit of everything, and I look forward to coming back.
Florida SR 13 runs alongside the St. Johns River, which flows lazily from south to north for more than 300 miles and enters the Atlantic Ocean near Jacksonville. For this ride, my relaxed pace matched that of the river.
I should warn you: This Florida motorcycle ride doesn’t include challenging hairpin curves or drastic changes in elevation. The Sunshine State has a well-earned reputation for flat, straight roads, but there are little nuggets here and there that offer riding entertainment of a different sort.
Jacksonville is the second largest city by area in the contiguous U.S., so it’s spread out in clusters of population density. To get away from the hustle and bustle, I headed to a local favorite for motorcyclists, State Road 13, which runs for nearly 50 miles along the east bank of the north-flowing St. Johns River from Jacksonville south to Spuds, a rural community that grows exactly what its name would suggest.
On the day of my ride, I hit the lottery in terms of traffic. I had the day off for Presidents’ Day. Schools were out, less fortunate souls were working, and my family was visiting the zoo, so I had a cool, sunny day all to myself.
After filling my body’s tank with high-octane coffee, I fired up my air-cooled Ducati Scrambler 1100, and its Italian rumble brought a smile to my face. I started off midmorning in no particular rush, enjoying the Duc’s torquey Twin while my fellow travelers sat locked in their steel cages.
As I approached Greenbriar Road, my thoughts went to the history of this unremarkable stretch. Artist Amy Stump, who is a native to the area, once told me about the road’s history and its nickname, Ghost Light Road, which was summed up in Bill Delaney’s Jaxlore column in The Jaxson:
“[T]he ghost is a young motorcyclist from the area whose father had warned him about speeding on the dirt road. One fateful day, the young man’s brother strung a rope across Greenbriar. This prank merely would have unseated the cocky rider had he heeded his father’s admonition, but, unfortunately, he gunned the engine and lost his head. Thereafter, his ghost shined his headlamp down Greenbriar in a nightly vigil, either searching for his lost head or warning others against being so reckless.”
Trees draped in Spanish moss are a common sight in this part of Florida.
Like The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, the tale is apocryphal, but why let the truth get in the way of a good story?
Greenbriar Road ends at SR 13 near Switzerland (which is nothing like the country), and I headed south toward the town of Orangedale, passing under a large canopy of oak trees casting shadows over the road. The 17-mile stretch of SR 13 between Julington Creek and Wades Creek is designated as the William Bartram Scenic and Historic Highway, named after the naturalist and botanist who documented plants, animals, and native peoples in the area during the late 1700s.
Part of SR 13 honors 18th-century botanist and naturalist William Bartram.
As I rolled along the well-kept two-lane road, I caught peeks of the St. Johns River through the trees, and a few curves and roundabouts provided an opportunity to lean the Ducati over. There are small parks aplenty for scenic stops, many with benches to take in the river views and get a taste of “Old Florida.”
As I approached Orangedale, I was enveloped by the smokey smell wafting from Woodpeckers Backyard BBQ, a local favorite. Amy Stump’s mural of angel wings encircling regional landmarks greeted me as I placed an order for brisket and datil corn. Luckily, I got there before the brisket sold out, a gutting experience for those who arrive late in the day. I took my platter across the street to the Shands Pier and ate while watching boats gliding on the glint of the St. Johns.
A mural by Amy Stump at Woodpeckers Backyard BBQ, which is across from Shands Pier on SR 13.
Continuing south on SR 13, I took a brief detour on State Road 16 and crossed the Shands Bridge, passing fishermen, food trucks, and farm vendors. After riding by boatyards full of masts jutting into the sky, I stopped at The Military Museum of North Florida, located at the former site of Naval Air Station Lee Field. With its bunker-like main building, heavy machinery, and even a couple of military motorcycles from past theaters of war, it serves as a vivid reminder of the area’s deep military history.
View of the St. Johns River at Shands Pier. Between Palatka and Jacksonville, the river ranges from 1 to 3 miles wide.
Back on SR 13, I stopped at Trout Creek Memorial Park and Marina, highlights of which include the Major Gen. William W. Loring Monument and swamp-boat rentals for sightseeing or fishing. While enjoying an inspiring view of the creek, I imagined William Bartram recording observations and gathering samples in the same location hundreds of years ago.
The Military Museum of North Florida is on the west side of the river in Green Cove Springs.
Just down the road, I stopped at Buddy Boy’s Country Store, the best gas station on this route to fill up or enjoy the camaraderie of fellow riders. With its Adirondack chairs, general store provisions, and tasty country barbecue, it’s a must-stop if you’re in the area.
On the road again, the beauty of my ride really unfolded with curvy roads winding through tree canopies with peekaboo views of the river, piers, boat docks, and parks. Between the well-to-do town of Picolata (once the home of a Spanish fort) and Tocoi, SR 13 opened up, giving the Ducati a chance to stretch its legs.
Once past Tocoi, I recommend stopping at Riverdale Park. With picnic tables, benches, and a well-kept public restroom, it’s a nice place to relax and reflect. As the glassy calm waters of the St. Johns lapped gently against the shore, I closed my eyes and soaked in the ambience.
A taste of Florida’s primitive beauty at Trout Creek Memorial Park and Marina.
SR 13 ends at the junction with State Road 207 near Spuds. I had a decision to make: head east toward the coast to towns like St. Augustine, Palm Coast, and Daytona Beach, or cross the river and ride up the west bank of the St. Johns. Eager to get home in time to enjoy dinner with my family and listen to the adventures my 6-year-old and his friends had at the zoo, I returned home the way I came, enjoying the open road and the scenery in the opposite direction. The beauty of this route is that it’s enjoyable on its own, or it can be combined with other scenic roads nearby. One thing’s for sure: It was the change of pace I was looking for.
In late October, an Appalachians motorcycle ride is a gamble. Weather is the house, and over time, the house usually wins. But once in a while, lady luck is on your side, as she was when a college friend and I gambled on one last ride before the riding season ended, taking a 460-mile loop through the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, including a section of the historic Lincoln Highway and a visit to Gettysburg.
From my home in Manassas, Virginia, we headed west on Interstate 66 toward Front Royal under clear blue skies with temperatures in the mid-60s. My leather jacket was perfect for these conditions because my Triumph Sprint GT’s sporty fairing offers only modest wind protection.
After a brief jaunt on Interstate 81, we continued west on U.S. Route 48 into West Virginia, where we enjoyed highway cruising speeds through mountains blanketed with foliage in various hues of yellow, orange, red, and brown.
We made quick time to Baker, where Route 48’s four lanes become two. At Thomas, we turned north on U.S. Route 219, dialed up some throttle, and weaved through the highlands briefly before stopping at the remote Fairfax Stone. The Fairfax Stone, originally placed in 1746, once marked the boundary of land granted to Lord Fairfax. The weather can be unpredictable in the mountains, but our luck held. The wind and the rustle of falling leaves brought a sense of solitude and calm to the area.
The Fairfax Stone is tucked away in the highlands near the West Virginia-Maryland border. (Photo by Antony-22 via Wikimedia Commons)
Continuing north on Route 219, we entered Maryland and enjoyed more mountain views, including a ridge lined with big wind turbines. Just outside of Oakland, we turned east on State Route 135 towards Westernport. This part of western Maryland, just south of the Savage River State Forest, in and out of valleys and up and over mountains, felt more remote than any other area we rode through. Occasionally, where the trees had shed their leaves, we caught glimpses of the valley below as we ascended a mountain.
Somewhere outside of Gettysburg, we made a brief stop to enjoy the sights and sounds of one last ride before Old Man Winter arrived.
From Westernport, we took State Route 36 north toward Frostburg, where we hopped on Interstate 68 east for about 12 miles to the exit for U.S. Route 220. We continued north and soon crossed into Pennsylvania, and after about 25 mostly straight miles, we arrived in Bedford, where we picked up U.S. Route 30 and saw the first red, white, and blue sign with a large “L” designating the Lincoln Highway.
Dedicated in 1913, the Lincoln Highway was America’s first transcontinental road for automobiles – and motorcycles! It spanned 3,000 miles and connected New York to San Francisco by way of Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Chicago, Omaha, Cheyenne, and Salt Lake City.
One of the many historic sites along the Lincoln Highway is The Coffee Pot, an 18-foot-tall building shaped like a coffee pot that was built in 1927 in Bedford, Pennsylvania, and once housed a small restaurant. A few miles west of Bedford, at the crest of one of the rolling hills that ebb and flow through bucolic pastures, the neon sign of the Lincoln Motor Court beckoned us to step back in time.
My cottage at the Lincoln Motor Court, located just east of Schellsburg on Route 30, was a time machine back to the 1940s.
Built in the 1940s and laid out in the shape of a U, the motor court’s 12 single-room cottages offer more than just a place to rest for the night. The wood paneling, kerosene wall heaters, and period decor transported us back to the days before interstate highways.
The Coffee Pot in Bedford, Pennsylvania, once served as a lunch stand along the Lincoln Highway but now rests in the nearby fairgrounds. (Photo by Jeff Kubina via Wikimedia Commons)
With autumn daylight burning away, we hopped back on the bikes and cruised over to Schellsburg for dinner at Judy’s Place (a recommendation from the motel owner), where our bet on wings and a plate of crabby fries paid off. When we returned to the motor court, there was a fire crackling in the fire pit. It doesn’t get much better than sitting in the glow of a fire and trading riding stories over beers.
A crisp autumn day with clear skies welcomed us the next morning. As we cruised east on the Lincoln Highway toward Gettysburg, we tried to imagine what the road was like in its early days. It was once promoted as a way to get from New York City to San Francisco by automobile for the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exhibition. Completing the full route took weeks back then.
View of the Gettysburg battlefield facing west.
We were less concerned about getting to a destination than getting away, as the Lincoln Highway offers a nice reprieve from the nearby Pennsylvania Turnpike (Interstate 76). There’s less traffic and noise and more scenery – a ribbon of highway that rolls through beautiful Pennsylvania farm country and crests at numerous ridgelines.
The Gettysburg National Military Park is surrounded by memorials and markers. In our limited time, we were only able to visit a few. (Photo by Refocus Photography – stock.adobe.com)
In Gettysburg, we had a bite to eat at the Lincoln Diner and browsed at The Union Drummer Boy, a shop that sells Civil War artifacts. Then we cruised through the historic downtown and over to the Gettysburg National Military Park. We climbed to the upper level of the Pennsylvania State Memorial, which offers sweeping views of the hallowed ground where the Battle of Gettysburg was fought in 1863. For anyone who appreciates American history, a visit to Gettysburg is highly recommended.
The Pennsylvania State Memorial is the largest monument on the Gettysburg battlefield, and it offers panoramic views from the upper level. (Photo by imagoDens – stock.adobe.com
Late in the day, my friend and I parted ways. He headed back to Philadelphia, and I turned south toward Virginia. With one last ride in the books before the onset of winter, we walked away from the table as winners.
Enjoying one of the 318 curves in 11 miles on Tail of the Dragon. (photo by Killboy)
The few months leading up to this ride, which included the famed Blue Ridge Parkway, had been rough. My wife was recovering from some major health issues, I was finally recovering from a relatively minor health issue, and our 16-year-old daughter was in full teenager mode, and we were all still in shock after one of her close friends was murdered.
On many days, I felt like a dark cloud was hanging over me. Happiness eluded me, and the fragility of life occupied my thoughts. Something needed to change, but I didn’t know what. It was time to reset and clear my head.
My wife and daughter convinced me that they would survive – and possibly even thrive – without me for a week, so I decided to take time off from work and go for a solo motorcycle ride. But where to go?
When I bought a used Honda Gold Wing a few years ago, it had a couple of Deals Gap stickers on the back fender, and the previous owner asked if I planned to remove them. I said no, as I had ridden the Tail of the Dragon many times and vowed to do so again on the Gold Wing. This trip would be a perfect time to validate the stickers.
Cameron reading one of the historical markers on the BRP.
When my 11-year-old son, Cameron, heard about my planned ride, he begged me to let him tag along. He had been on a multiday ride with me before, and he’s a stellar passenger. I figured he could probably use a change of scenery too, and I’d benefit from the natural positivity that kids have before they learn how ugly the world can be.
With my wife’s blessing, Cameron joined me. In addition to riding through the Deals Gap area, I also decided to give Cameron his first taste of the Blue Ridge Parkway and to visit the Wheels Through Time motorcycle museum in Maggie Valley, North Carolina.
After a long, tiring first day of battling an endless procession of left-lane bandits heading south on Interstate 81 from our home in Ottawa (when did the passing lane become the driving lane?), we joined the Blue Ridge Parkway at its northern terminus outside of Waynesboro, Virginia, on a cloudy Sunday morning. It was like entering a different world. Traffic was almost nonexistent. There were no stop signs, no traffic lights, and no commercialism. And no one was in a hurry.
Construction of the 469-mile Blue Ridge Parkway began in 1935 and was largely completed by 1966, with one exception: the Linn Cove Viaduct around Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina, which was completed in 1987. From start to finish, the project took 52 years and cost nearly half a billion dollars. It was worth it.
The clouds were low, so mist and fog were constant companions that morning. It added to the mystique of the ride, but also to my melancholy. The previous day’s long interstate slog had left me tired, which did nothing to clear the dark cloud that had been following me.
Cameron reading one of the historical markers on the BRP.
Low traffic and low speed limits made for a relaxing morning, but we got some rain on our Blue Ridge parade. A few light showers helped bring out the rainbows – and the deer. We saw nine of them, and there were probably others we didn’t see, which helped justify the 45-mph speed limit. Cruising at a moderate pace also allowed us to enjoy the scenery.
Cameron loved the idea that we were riding through the clouds that people in the valleys were looking up at. I had been on this stretch of the parkway many times, and I used to think I wouldn’t need to do it again, but seeing it through Cameron’s eyes gave me a new appreciation for the beauty. The stunning views from the overlooks constantly amazed him. His enthusiasm was infectious and eventually broke through my sullenness.
Trust me, there’s a smile behind that chinbar.
After detouring through Roanoke because of road damage on the parkway, we stopped for the night in Christiansburg, Virginia. At a soul food restaurant, Cameron was introduced to Southern accents and Southern food in the form of delicious catfish and grits.
Traveling with a child is different than traveling solo or with another adult. The sense of freedom I usually have on a motorcycle trip was somewhat tempered. I couldn’t simply abandon my parental duties, and safety became a bigger concern. On the other hand, being able to share a passion with my child is an opportunity I relished. I remember motorcycle trips with my father, and I know Cameron will remember this one, so I tried to provide good memories. Luckily, he’s a good traveler and was happy to be there, so most things were easy.
Cameron cooling off at Bridal Veil Falls, which is on Highway 28 near Highlands, North Carolina.
The next day was another good one, with more superb views and a higher cloud ceiling that allowed us to see farther than the day before.
For people who love tight, curvy tarmac, the roads that lead up to and down from the Blue Ridge Parkway are often more fun than the parkway itself. Climbing up to 4,000 feet requires lots of twists and turns, and smooth pavement and good banking made for a Gold Wing carnival ride. Cameron loves the curves as much as I do, so we occasionally took a side road that looked interesting just to get to the bottom, then turned around and went back up.
We had lunch at The Bluffs restaurant, directly on the parkway. Opened in 1949, it was the first spot to provide meals on the parkway through a contract with the National Park Service. After closing in 2010, it was beautifully renovated and re-opened in 2021. It is a charming building, and the lunch was delicious but expensive. I chalked it up to the price of atmosphere and history.
The Bluffs has great food and a great atmosphere.
After some fantastic overlooks and busting into the clouds on a foggy ride up Mount Mitchell at more than 6,600 feet, we pulled into the Mount Pisgah Campground for our first night of camping. At almost 5,000 feet of elevation, it provided a cool break from the heat and humidity lower down. The views from the Pisgah Inn where we grabbed a few sandwiches were incredible.
We woke up to the clearest day of the trip so far, with hardly a cloud in the sky. The southern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway near Asheville, North Carolina, often has more traffic than the northern part, but the views are fabulous. Cameron and I agreed that the best way to ride the parkway is probably north to south, as the views get better as you go south.
Our spacious campsite at the Tsali Campground off North Carolina Highway 28.
Slaying Dragons…and Mice?
After reaching the southern terminus of the parkway in Cherokee, we rode to the Tsali Campground on North Carolina Highway 28 (aka Moonshiner 28). We set up our tent early to lighten our load for our Deals Gap run. After a stop at Fontana Dam, we rode the Tail of the Dragon’s 318 curves in 11 miles. I’ve ridden the road several times over the past 20 years, but this was the first time on such a big bike and with a passenger. The aftermarket suspension on the Wing helped, and it handled the challenge quite well, validating its stickers for me. The road is fantastic, and we both had a great time on it.
My 2010 Honda Gold Wing handles like a dream on curvy roads, and its footpegs are beveled to a sharp edge. (photo by Killboy)
The next day we rode south on Highway 28, another great road, past Franklin and made a stop at Bridal Veil Falls. We met a couple of guys from Minnesota who recognized my Aerostich jacket as being from Duluth, near where they live. One of them was riding a beautiful early ’70s-era BMW that he restored.
Highway 28 allows you to visit multiple states in a short period. From North Carolina, we crossed into Georgia for about 15 minutes, then into South Carolina. At the pretty town of Walhalla, South Carolina, we decided to head north again to our destination for the night, Maggie Valley, North Carolina. I used the “adventurous routing” on my Garmin GPS, telling it to take us on hilly, curvy roads to our destination. The route delivered and included South Carolina highways 11 and 130 and North Carolina Highway 281 to Tuckasegee and eventually to our motel in Maggie Valley.
Enjoying a break at the Deal’s Gap Motorcycle Resort before tackling the Dragon.
For those of us not blessed to live in a motorcycle nirvana such as this area, it is really astonishing how outstanding the roads are. Curves are everywhere you look. Reviewing my GPS tracks afterwards highlighted how many curves we went through in a short time. This part of the world is truly a motorcyclist’s paradise.
After a nice evening, we settled in for a quiet night. Cameron slept while I looked at maps to plan our next couple days of riding. The rustling of a plastic bag on the TV stand attracted my attention to a mouse trying to get into our few provisions. I have musophobia – fear of mice and rats – so this was an unwelcome development. After trying in vain to catch the mouse without getting too close to it, I ended up going to the office and requesting another room. I had to wake up Cameron, and we moved all our stuff to a different room. Taming the Dragon on a 950-lb motorcycle? No problem. Sharing a room with a furry little mouse? No thank you!
The Wheels Through Time Museum was one of the highlights of our trip. It’s a must-see for any motorcycle enthusiast.
After a fitful sleep filled with nightmares of battling giant mice, we started our day with a visit to the Wheels Through Time Museum, home to over 300 rare American motorcycles, memorabilia, and a few cars. It is advertised as the “Museum that Runs,” and does it ever. Staff walk around answering questions and will often start a bike to let visitors hear it. It’s incredible to listen to a 1950 Harley WL or an opposed-cylinder, shaft-drive military-issue 1942 Harley XA running in all their glory. Most museums are static places where you just look at things – at this one you can feel, hear, and smell history. An incredible place. We were both very impressed and will visit again. If you go, be warned: After leaving, you may feel a powerful urge to buy an old Harley or Indian!
From Maggie Valley we rode toward Boone on North Carolina Highway 209, also known as The Rattler. With curves everywhere and little traffic, it was a great ride, even if we hit a few rain showers that cooled us off. Garmin’s “adventurous routing” again took us along several state routes, each one seemingly curvier than the last, toward our mouse-free hotel in Boone.
Cameron was a great passenger – and an even better companion.
That Blue Ridge Parkway Peace of Mind
There comes a point in every trip where a metaphysical corner is turned, where the journey is no longer about the journey but about getting home. We had reached that point in the ride. Unwilling to let our fun times slip away easily, we spent the next morning taking the long way home, winding our way on some small roads before getting onto the I-81 left-lane traffic jam for the long slog back home to Ontario.
Taking a break on Flat Ridge Road in Virginia, our last bit of fun before the long ride home.
The goal of this trip – and most traveling, really – was to rest, clear the mind, and gain a different perspective. In that, the trip succeeded. A week of waking up every morning with nothing to do but ride some of North America’s greatest motorcycle roads is a wonderful way to come to terms with the hardships and challenges of life. Staying in the present moment by thinking only of the next curve truly does help heal the mind and soul. It’s not the first time a motorcycle ride has done that for me, but this was probably the most significant. Sharing new memories with my son made it even better.
We came, we saw, we slayed the Dragon! We’re already looking forward to our next father-and-son trip.
Babcock State Park, not far from New River Gorge, includes a lushly wooded campground with lots of shade.
Inspiration for a motorcycle trip can come from many avenues – perhaps by word of mouth about legendary riding destinations like the Tail of the Dragon or seeing iconic locations like national parks on television or in movies. Inspiration for this West Virginia motorcycle trip – including riding part of the Midland Trail – was internal; I wanted to challenge myself and get out of my comfort zone. But before I departed, I felt anxious.
Why the Hesitation to Take a West Virginia Motorcycle Trip?
I had been on previous solo moto camping trips, but a trip to central West Virginia from my home in northern Kentucky would be my longest trip, the farthest from home, and in a state I had never ridden. Doubts and insecurities were plaguing me, as I was still relatively new to motorcycle camping and riding long distances. I had also been raised in a town where women didn’t travel alone, and certainly not on a motorcycle. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was getting myself in over my head with a trip this ambitious.
While I yearned to travel to the New River Gorge area and ride the Midland Trail along U.S. Route 60, fear was holding me back. That is, until my husband encouragingly asked me, “You really want to go, don’t you?” When my answer was a sincere and wholehearted “Yes,” it was clear to both of us what I needed to do.
I decided to go the next weekend – I practically had the whole route planned already anyway – and began packing.
After heading out from my house in northern Kentucky with a full pack on my Kawasaki Versys-X 300, my first stop was Maysville, Kentucky. I wasn’t expecting the quaint, darling downtown with perfectly painted old brick buildings and well-maintained streets. Nor was I expecting the restaurant I chose online to be temporarily closed. Struggling to balance my helmet and gear while I looked for another restaurant on my phone, a man approached me with his small dog and asked if I needed help.
The author prepares for her West Virginia motorcycle trip.
After telling him of my plight, he eagerly offered to show me to “the best restaurant in Maysville” and escorted me down the street a couple of blocks, sharing history about the town as the three of us strolled. Delite’s Downtown had an antique sign befitting the diner’s ’60s-era interior decor, and you could tell it was all original. I ordered biscuits and gravy – a road trip favorite of mine – and while I couldn’t judge if it was indeed the best restaurant in town, I left satisfied.
A Sign from Strangers
Downtown Huntington, West Virginia (Photo by Sherman Cahal/Adobe Stock)
After a few hours of riding with only a stop for gas, I was relieved to arrive at a German restaurant in Huntington, West Virginia, called Bahnhof WVrsthaus & Biergarten. Stretching my legs as I walked into the restaurant, I was enthralled with the indoor/outdoor multiple-story dining area and the atmosphere of the place. I ordered the currywurst topped with a sweet raisin chutney and a side of buttery herbed spaetzle.
The food was delicious, but the real star of the experience was a rowdy group of men and a woman sitting at the bar. Their lively exchanges were impossible not to overhear, and they soon struck up a conversation with me.
Bahnhof WVrsthaus & Biergarten’s indoor/outdoor seating in Huntington was as unique as their gourmet house-made sausages.
They asked the usual questions – “Where are you from?” and “Where are you going?” – and when they heard I was headed to New River Gorge, they yelled out in unison, “Fayetteville!” All three began talking at the same time, gushing over the food, drinks, views, and roads in that area. I was able to make out “Kanawha Falls” and “Gauley Bridge,” two places I planned on visiting, as well as “hairpin turns” – that’s all I needed to hear. I felt a rush of encouragement, having received a clear sign that I was headed in the right direction for a great trip.
Riding the Midland Trail
As I left Charleston, I was right where I wanted to be – at the mouth of U.S. Route 60, also known as the Midland Trail National Scenic Byway. Route 60 runs from Kenova, near the Kentucky border, clear across West Virginia and east to the Virginia border. Offering a mix of mountain terrain, low-speed cruising through small towns, and rolling countryside, it’s a favorite motorcycle ride in West Virginia.
Fayetteville is a gem of the New River Gorge area, complete with its own small theater.
The route started out with easy, flowing curves, but once in the mountains, it was exhilarating hairpin after thrilling switchback for miles on end. After scraping my peg on a decreasing-radius right turn, I put more care into my body positioning and slowed it down a little. The turns rivaled some of my favorite curvy roads in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.
Pulling up to my campground at Babcock State Park, I was welcomed with a clean, pretty campsite not far from the bathhouse and some perfect trees from which to hang my hammock. I was exhausted after a full day of riding – the most miles I had ever ridden in one day – and it showed. I struggled to set up camp and prepare some dehydrated food for dinner. Fatigue is a serious concern on motorcycle trips, and I was relieved that I was safely at my home away from home.
While camping at Babcock, I was able to wake up to this delightful view every morning.
An Ethereal Glow and a Famous Bridge
Waking up to a lovely view of my bike from my open tent, I was looking forward to eating some real food. I made my first stop at the Cathedral Cafe & Book Store in Fayetteville. A converted old church, it still has the gorgeous stained-glass windows intact, which glowed ethereal colors on the inside with the sunlight shining through. A breakfast of croissant French toast and locally made chorizo hit the spot, and I was ready to hit the hiking trails.
Of all the manmade constructions in the Midland Trail area, these stained-glass windows at Cathedral Cafe were the most stunning.
I hadn’t done much planning in terms of the trails I wanted to hike, so I stopped at the New River Gorge National Park & Preserve Welcome Center. It has an overlook of the New River Gorge Bridge, so I unexpectedly caught my first glimpse of its expansive form. Once inside the building, the friendly state park ranger suggested I head to Long Point Trail for the best view of the bridge, so I set out with their map, kindly marked up with my route.
The beginning of the Long Point Trail, which leads to the top of a cliff near the New River Gorge Bridge.
The Long Point Trail was a fine, moderately difficult hike, but the magic was at the top of the overlook. Sheer cliffs dropped off dramatically on all sides, while miles of forest extended out into the distance. The woods were only interrupted by the 3,030-foot-long, 876-foot-high New River Gorge Bridge, at one time the highest bridge in the country and still the highest east of the Mississippi. I once stood on the top of the 75-foot-tall Natural Bridge at the Red River Gorge in Kentucky, but this was even more magnificent.
There were two unspoken rules at the top: First, you take a picture for the next person in line on the edge of the cliff in front of the bridge, and second, no one puts anyone else in danger. When visiting treacherous natural wonders, I’m always amazed that people have so much trust in everyone around them – and themselves – to not fall off. After the photo exchange, I sat down on a rock near one side of the cliff and enjoyed a leisurely bagged lunch.
Standing mere inches away from the edge with the New River Gorge Bridge in the background.
More Exploration on My West Virginia Motorcycle Trip
Before heading to the attractions recommended to me the day before, I crossed the New River Gorge Bridge. I was able to steal some glances over the guardrail of the four-lane highway and was rewarded with views of the forest stretching as far as I could see and the winding New River hundreds of feet below me.
The New River Gorge Bridge towers 876 feet above the rushing waters below. It’s possible to ride on top of the bridge as well as on a road below it. (Photo by steheap/Adobe Stock)
Back on Route 60, I saw the sign for Kanawha Falls and pulled off. It is an impressively wide waterfall, as it spans the entire width of the Kanawha River. The viewing area is a bit far from the falls, so I felt disconnected from the powerful water. Cathedral Falls, just down the road, is much closer to the viewing area and is staggeringly tall, but the parking lot was so busy that I couldn’t pull over to get a closer look; I only caught glimpses as I rode past. Gauley Bridge also ran right alongside the road but was a little lackluster after viewing the New River Gorge Bridge.
It was getting late in the day, and I still wanted to visit Lewisburg. I left Gauley Bridge and headed out, feeling some anxiety about making it back to my campsite before nightfall. I was not looking forward to traversing mountainous roadways after dark, but I pressed on nonetheless.
Kanawha Falls, the largest waterfall in West Virginia, roars alongside the Midland Trail near Gauley Bridge.
Another rider on a large adventure bike, loaded down with hard cases, turned onto Route 60 behind me. It was fun to ride “together” for the rest of the way to Lewisburg. I zipped around curves through gorgeous scenery with this unknown motorcycle tourer. When I pulled into a parking spot just inside Lewisburg’s downtown strip, he gave me a wave over his shoulder as he passed. There’s nothing like the camaraderie of a fellow rider, especially when they’re also clearly on their own unique adventure.
After eating an overpriced (but still delicious) plate of lasagna at The Humble Tomato, an upscale-but-casual Italian restaurant right on the strip, I decided to walk downtown for a bit before heading back. I stopped in the Lewisburg Welcome Center to see if they had any worthy souvenirs and was greeted by a friendly older man. He was shocked, as many people are, to find a young woman on a solo motorcycle trip, and he had plenty of questions. After I purchased a few stickers, he began fumbling around the cash register and counter, mumbling that he had something special for me.
The quaint strip of downtown shops and restaurants along the main road in Lewisburg.
After a few awkward minutes, he finally found what he was looking for – a Route 39 pin and coin – and handed them over proudly. “I give these to all the Harley guys,” he said with a chuckle. I pocketed the trinkets, a little embarrassed as I hadn’t actually ridden Route 39 on my trip but thanked him nevertheless. Then I saddled up and headed back to my campsite at Babcock State Park.
A Unique Blend of Scenery
Having been distracted earlier by my adventure rider buddy on the way to Lewisburg, I had zipped past the beauty of the countryside along that section of the Midland Trail. On my return ride, it was the magical “golden hour,” and the scenery was lit with a warm glow. It was like a charming blend of scenery back home – the green rolling hills of eastern Kentucky rural farmland punctuated with the mountainous terrain and sharp corners of the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.
Riding on the gentle slopes and curves of hills as green as a jewel, I could see Appalachian ridges seemingly on all sides. Peaks would loom straight ahead in the distance, growing closer and closer until I was on them, climbing switchbacks, only to descend minutes later and then do it again. It was a dream ride.
Returning Home from My West Virginia Motorcycle Trip
After a pleasant night at my campsite sitting by a roaring fire, I woke up and began grudgingly preparing for my return home. There was so much I didn’t get a chance to see.
I hopped on the highway for a quicker return trip, and while I wasn’t planning on stopping in Charleston, the view of the 23-karat gold-leaf gilded top of the Capitol, with a dome 5 feet higher than the U.S. Capitol, lured me in.
My last stop was the Griffith & Feil Drug and Soda Fountain in Kenova, West Virginia, literally the last exit before the Kentucky border. I enjoyed the bright and colorful neon lights inside and ordered a root beer float – the absolute best I’ve ever had, with unbelievably creamy vanilla ice cream and fizzy, sweet-and-spicy soda.
I enjoyed a root beer float in Kenova at a soda fountain reminiscent of the past.
Plans for the Future
While returning my wallet to my motorcycle jacket after paying for my treat, my fingers brushed against a metal object – the Route 39 coin the kind man in Lewisburg had given me the day before. Not only had I survived the trip I had been nervous about taking in the first place, I had also proven myself to be a capable motorcycle camper and tourer. Proud of my accomplishments, I pocketed the metal coin, thinking to myself, “I’ll come back to ride this mysterious Route 39.”
The West Virginia Capitol in Charleston is a sight to see with its gilded top.
I gathered up my things, excited at the prospect of arriving home after a successful solo journey. I was also looking forward to planning my next trip to West Virginia, inspired by a simple gift from a stranger – something I wouldn’t have received had I not taken that leap and just rode.
Behind our bikes is Seneca Rocks, a crag that towers 900 feet above the North Fork River and is one of the best-known natural features in West Virginia. Photos by the author.
It’s not until we exit Interstate 81, run through some gears on U.S. Route 48, and catch a whiff of dew-covered fields that I feel like we’ve arrived. Craig, a friend from college who lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia, has a pass for the weekend, so he came down for a ride with me to Seneca Rocks through “Wild and Wonderful” West Virginia. He’s on his 2000 Harley Road King and I’m on my 2011 Triumph Sprint GT.
Our starting point is Manassas, in northern Virginia, and the fastest route west to the Appalachians is Interstate 66, followed by a three-mile hop on I-81 before we exit and turn onto U.S. 48.
Once off the interstate, everything changes. Time – and our speed – slows down, giving us the opportunity to notice our surroundings. Simple houses have cinder-block foundations and detached garages. Folks out here don’t walk behind wimpy electric mowers, and they don’t put grass clippings in bags. Out here they proudly ride large gas-powered mowers, with clippings flung far and wide across expansive yards. We take in that unmistakable smell of freshly cut grass – it smells like summertime.
Nestled in the Appalachians, Seneca Rocks is part of Monongahela National Forest.
U.S. 48 is two-lane road with farmland on both sides for about five miles before ascending through the forest and over the ridgeline that serves as the border between Virginia and West Virginia. It’s a quick descent on a 9% grade to Wardensville, where 48 gets a major makeover and becomes a four-lane divided highway. Before the superhighway starts, we divert to Old Route 55 (McCauley Road) and wind our way through the shaded Lost River valley.
Old West Virginia Route 55 (McCauley Road), which winds along the forested course of the Lost River, is a more enjoyable ride than the straighter, faster U.S. Route 48.
We hop back on 48 just before Baker and make our way to Moorefield, where we head south on Main Street (U.S. Route 220). The road flattens out through more farmland, but mountains on all sides feed our anticipation of future switchbacks. At Petersburg, we continue west on State Route 28 and follow the North Fork South Branch Potomac River, which carved one of the many gaps through the mountains.
Heading south, we catch glimpses of Champe Rocks, a pair of vertical crags that emerge from the Champe Knobs in the Allegheny Mountains. Roughly 230 million years ago, rock that was once at the bottom of the sea was pushed up until it became vertical. Softer rock eventually eroded, but the quartzite that makes up the fin-looking outcroppings is much harder and still stands today. The rocks are within the Spruce Knob-Seneca Rocks National Recreation Area in the Monongahela National Forest. Cabin rental advertisements along the road speak to the great fishing, canoeing, hiking, and camping to be found nearby.
After cresting High Knob and crossing back into Virginia, we descended through a cathedral-like canopy of forest.
Before long, the Seneca Rocks formation – a well-known scenic destination in the Mountain State – emerges from the dense forest of the River Knobs range. The rock walls are popular among climbers, but after our 150-mile morning ride, Craig and I are more interested in eating. We kick out our stands at Yokum’s Vacationland, at the junction of Route 28 and U.S. Route 33. In business since 1923, Yokum’s has a general store, a deli, a motel, cabins, and a campground.
Yokum’s has been serving visitors to Seneca Rocks since 1923. It has a general store, restaurant, motel, cabins, and camping.
The short-order grill is in the back of the store, so Craig and I walk past all manner of local goods (Traffic Jam catches my eye) and order lunch. Being from Philadelphia, Craig surprises me by ordering a Philly cheesesteak, but the result looks even better than my cheeseburger, which hits the spot. After our meal, we ride a couple hundred yards down the road, park the bikes in a lot along Roy Gap Road, and walk to the river, our eyes focused on the climbers high above on the rocks. We agree that Yokum’s would make a great hub for riding some of the more adventurous routes through the eastern part of the state.
Downtown Elkins, West Virginia.
A curvy 35-mile ride west through the Alleghenies on U.S. 33 brings us to Elkins, a classic American town with restaurants, bars, hotels, and shops. In the center of town is the West Virginia Railroad Museum and a historic train depot that’s one of the stops on the Durbin & Greenbrier Valley Railroad, a tourist train that travels through rugged mountain scenery.
The Durbin & Greenbrier Valley Railroad is a scenic train that connects three historic depots in West Virginia.
After returning to Seneca Rocks, we continue south on U.S. 33, which makes a sharp turn to the east at Judy Gap. On the ascending turns I’m tempted to open up the throttle, but I check my urge so as not to miss Germany Valley overlook – a great view of the valley and the River Knobs range just before the crest of North Fork Mountain. Thirty miles later we crest High Knob and cross back into Virginia. On the descent, where the road is straight and the old growth creates a canopy a hundred feet above, it feels like riding through a cathedral.
Settled by German farmers in the mid-18th century, West Virginia’s Germany Valley was the site of a frontier fort during the American Revolution.
We brave the stoplights and traffic of Harrisonburg before again ascending to Swift Run Gap, where Shenandoah National Park’s Skyline Drive intersects with U.S. 33. Two monuments give a bit of history of the pass, where in 1716 Lieutenant Governor Spotswood and a group of rangers, Native Americans, and government officials set out to prove that an easy path over the Blue Ridge Mountains existed.
Monuments at Swift Run Gap, where Skyline Drive intersects with U.S. Route 33.
At Stanardsville, we take Business Route 33 through the historic district. We turn north on State Route 230, which eventually ends at U.S. Route 29, where we again turn north. Less than half a mile later we stop at a brightly colored Tastee-Freez to escape the summer heat and wolf down hot fudge sundaes. A local informs us it’s the oldest continuously operated, privately owned Tastee-Freez in America.
Nothing takes the edge off a hot summer ride better than ice cream, and this classic Tastee-Freez near Madison, Virginia, didn’t disappoint.
The mountains fade from our mirrors as we continue northeast toward our starting point. We’ve only scratched the surface of what we can discover in West Virginia, and we’re eager to return.
Wide lanes and stunning views make the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge over the Cooper River a rider’s dream.
Charleston, South Carolina, is a true Southern belle. She turns 352 years old this year and has quite a past. In America’s early days, her importance rivaled New York and Boston. Shipping, as well as rice and cotton production, created extreme wealth. Hurricanes, wars, and bondage brought great despair. Like Scarlet O’Hara, Charleston has persevered, and today she wins “Best City” awards for her food, culture, and history.
One of the best ways to experience Charleston is from the seat of a motorcycle, flying over her many bridges. Charleston’s bridges link more than land and water. They link past and present, problems and answers, people and places. These days, twisting the throttle over Charleston’s bridges provides reflection and hope.
Since Charleston is located an hour off the I-95 superslab, many riders miss her charms. That’s a shame, as Charleston hits the redline on the motorcycle smile-to-mile dial. For you Northern bikers on a Florida run, this is a fantastic stop-over spot. I’ll bet you a flounder sandwich it will be a highlight of your journey. Lodging is plentiful at all price levels, and the local cuisine is world renowned, bringing together farm, ocean, Southern, and soul.
This ride can be done any time of year, but beware: Charleston is in the Deep South. Summers can be stifling and rainstorms can be intense. Wearing mesh apparel, keeping raingear handy, and avoiding afternoon traffic are highly recommended during summer months.
The author and his son, Luke, on a hot dog quest in Mount Pleasant.
From I-95, head southeast on I-26 for an hour. Take the ramp for I-526 East to Mount Pleasant. Cruising high above the salty marsh, in the first 15 minutes you’ll glide over two major bridges – the Don N. Holt over the Cooper River, and the James B. Edwards over the Wando River. You’re riding over the Lowcountry, a sprawling coastal region that’s just above sea level. With the tides shifting four times a day, much of the marshy terrain spends half its time under water.
Take the exit for Hungry Neck Boulevard, then turn right onto the Isle of Palms Connector (State Route 517). Cruising over the estuary, flip up your visor and enjoy the salty air and coastal views. At low tide, you’ll see mounds of “rocks” in the marsh, which are actually wild oysters. Raw, roasted, or in a Bloody Mary shot, they’re delicious.
Nattily dressed motorcyclists cruise down King Street during the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride.
You’ll cross two more bridges before reaching Isle of Palms. When the Connector ends, keep going straight to Front Beach. Biker law says you can’t get this close and not get in the ocean, so this is a great place to kick off your boots and get your toes wet.
Continue southwest on Palm Boulevard (State Route 703). Ride with the breeze along the Intracoastal Waterway until you cross Breach Inlet on the H.L. Hunley Bridge, named after the first submarine to sink a ship in battle. In 1864, the hand-cranked Hunley sank a Yankee ship but then disappeared off the coast of Sullivan’s Island, along with its crew of eight men. It wasn’t found until 1995. Stop at Thomson Park to enjoy the views and learn more about this historic location.
The Ben Sawyer swing bridge rotates to allow tall boats to pass on the Intracoastal Waterway.
From the park, hang a left on Middle Street. You’re now riding through “shabby chic” Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina’s wealthiest zip code, and you’ll see bars and restaurants. All are good, but the crispy/spicy Bangin’ Shrimp tacos at Mex 1 Coastal Cantina are my go-to. Salt in the air, beach on your boots, shrimp tacos in your hand, and your faithful steed parked under a palmetto tree. Life is good!
Continuing southwest on Middle Street takes you to Fort Moultrie National Historical Park. This high ground has a long history as a military post, going as far back as the Revolutionary War. The self-guided tour and harbor views are interesting, inspiring, and a great way to stretch your legs.
Colonial-era homes along the Battery, a seawall and promenade near downtown Charleston.
Backtrack to where Route 703 turns north and becomes Ben Sawyer Boulevard, a causeway that cuts back across the marsh. Take in the scent of salt, oysters, and tidal “pluff” mud. The Ben Sawyer Bridge is a swing bridge that rotates to allow tall boats to pass through. First opened to traffic in 1945, it was heavily damaged by Hurricane Hugo in 1989. When the islands evacuated, the tender left the bridge unlocked. When hurricane-force winds hit the bridge, it spun like a top, and one end plunged into the water.
Crossing the Ben Sawyer takes you into Mount Pleasant. Traffic increases through this vibrant area, with plenty of good restaurants and bars attracting the hungry and thirsty. Another bridge on Route 703 crosses over Shem Creek, with boats, kayaks, and bars below jammed with folks having a good time. Fresh local seafood is sold right on the docks. For a closer look, make a left and visit Shem Creek Park.
The party never ends on Shem Creek.
Continuing west on Route 703 (Coleman Boulevard), the road merges with U.S. Route 17 before crossing Charleston’s most prominent span, the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge over the Cooper River. Riding over the Ravenel, you’re at the highest point in the Lowcountry, with inspiring views of Charleston Harbor and the USS Yorktown, a WW2-era aircraft carrier anchored near Patriots Point. The Yorktown is now part of the Patriots Point Naval & Maritime Museum, and military buffs can easily spend a full day touring the ship, imagining or remembering the challenging days of our Greatest Generation.
The USS Yorktown aircraft carrier and USS Laffey destroyer are part of the Patriots Point Naval & Maritime Museum.
After crossing the Ravenel, follow signs for U.S. 17 South to Savannah and take the King Street exit. Turn right onto King Street for a fun, sweeping ride through history, from modern hipster hotels to perfectly preserved colonial-era homes. It’s a great time to reflect on our nation’s past, present, and potential.
Take King Street until it ends at Oyster Point overlooking the harbor. The views are spectacular, but Charleston is more than just her pretty petticoat and parasol. She’s beautiful and strong, old and new, happy and sad. Like America, she’s not perfect, but she’s authentic and awesome. This ride makes me proud, and hopeful for what’s over the next bridge.
A gathering of bikes at Oyster Point overlooking Charleston Harbor.
Though rarely on my bike these days, Hannah’s always along for the ride. Photo by Tristan Willey; other photos by the author.
The room is dirt cheap and smells it. I’ve been on the road for five weeks now, mostly camping to save money, and as I lay on the squeaky bed counting flies on the ceiling, I’m suddenly sick for fresh air. But nothing feels fresh in this part of Philly. The only thing I can think to do is pack up the bike and ride.
Though it’s not even 4 a.m., I find a young guy in work clothes sitting on the curb between our rooms, undoubtedly waiting to be picked up for some ass-kicking shift. He watches as I load up my BMW R 1200 RT test bike. Beyond “Hi” we don’t share a language, and it’s clear he’s baffled by the middle-aged lady with the big motorcycle, but I get a double thumbs up as I throttle away.
The Gold Wing Tour DCT devours backroads as eagerly as it does interstates.
My first task of the day is riding 200 miles north to swap the RT for a Honda Gold Wing Tour DCT. I’ve been testing bikes as I slowly crawl around America searching for its best roads. I tell people that when I return to the West Coast, I’ll write a book about what I’ve found, but really, it’s all an excuse to run. And yeah, we all know it’s not always the answer, but if you’re on the right bike, it sure can put some distance between you and dissatisfaction.
I’ve just returned from New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine on the RT, and am not quite sure where to point the Gold Wing. The one thing I know for certain is I want to be somewhere memorable on my birthday, and I have just one day to get there.
THE KEYS TO A PLAN
Pancakes embody my love of the road. I never eat them at home, but boy how I love to tuck into a full stack with a side of bacon when I’m traveling by bike.
Does anything say road trip better than a hot breakfast in an old-school diner?
As I wait in a kitschy diner in upstate New York for a Honda rep and the fob to my fresh ride, I surf my notes, woven like a fragile net intended to encase what’s been meaningful about my trip so far. Everything is about the roads: their surface quality, the number of twists and undulations, surrounding scenery, traffic density, the character of the towns on either end. I feel taxed. Like rating so many roads has taken the fun out of riding.
I zoom in and out on my map, frustrated. Where to splurge on a birthday layover? And then I feel that familiar tickle. A wild hair. This time in the shape of the Florida Keys, with Key West a formidable 1,502 miles from my current location, and the start of my birthday just 36 hours away.
The Honda Gold Wing is brilliant on long, straight roads and tight, twisty ones.
Just before noon, I’m shooting onto I-95 South aboard a candy red Gold Wing Tour. The bike, one of my perennial favorites, feels familiar, even in its modern, more lean and athletic form. The first time I tested a Gold Wing, it was a 1987 GL1500SE for Rider. I remember being transfixed by the way its enormity disappeared once it was moving. That sleight of hand has only become more pronounced over the years as Honda oh-so-slowly refined its Wing, especially in this sporty sixth-generation version, with its state-of-the-art rider aids and electronics.
CAT’S IN THE CRADLE
As the afternoon air thickens, I remember the poison ivy. Both of my ankles and shins are covered in an angry rash, punishment for getting a peek through the window of an overgrown church near Chesterhill, Ohio, a couple weeks back while I was checking out the famous Triple Nickel, Highway 555.
The price for a quick peek inside this abandoned church was a raging case of poison ivy that lasted for weeks. Luckily, my Facebook friends have lots of advice on curatives. The most popular suggestion is ocean water. The one that actually works is a steroid injection.
While trying to curb thoughts of ramming a hairbrush down my Sidi boots, I notice I’m buzzing New York City for the second time today. So close to the most important person in my life, my adult daughter, Hannah, who’s living in Brooklyn. You’d think I’d spend my birthday there, but the hard truth is, my kid just moved into a one-bedroom with a guy she’s super serious about, and I’ve already popped in and out too many times over the last couple weeks. It makes me feel all “Cat’s in the Cradle,” but I get it, and it feels right to give her space.
As a huge thunderhead slowly walks its way across the horizon, I shuffle through memories of rides a younger Hannah had taken behind me. Countless trips in the U.S., but also adventures to places like Namibia, Greece, Scotland, and South Africa. A couple days ago, I did manage to get her on the back of the RT for a little run up into the Catskills. Once away from the city, I felt her relax against the top case and sink into her love of being on the bike.
How satisfying it is to have someone in your life who understands the deeper value of motorcycles, who gets what it means to be called to the road. Because it’s not just about machines and transportation. A motorcycle is an open window, a free ticket to a fully immersive experience. Not a lifestyle. A way of living.
GOOD NIGHT
It’s pouring rain all the way from D.C. to Richmond, and I’m happy for the stability of the big Wing. I’ve signaled to the Tour model’s electronic suspension that I’m one-up with luggage and toggled to Rain mode in case there’s a slow down or emergency, but generally, the gyroscopic effect is the science I trust, and despite occasional hydroplaning and people in cars staring like I’m a wack job, I’m finding this part of the ride weirdly relaxing. Concentration and meditation are the same thing, after all, and as the day fades into a long, dark night, I realize I’m no longer ruminating over negative crap. Not even the itch of poison ivy is breaking through.
Once traffic lightens, it’s time to hit up a playlist via the Honda’s Apple CarPlay app. The intuitive infotainment system on the Gen 6 GL is easy to navigate, and smart features like LED lighting, multiple ride modes, traction control, walking reverse, and hill-start assist prove worthy accoutrements. It’s not my first tour with Honda’s automatic Dual Clutch Transmission, however, and it has yet to grow on me. Even in manual mode, I just don’t find it as satisfying as letting my highly trained left hand work its muscle memory magic.
My ride from Upstate New York to Key West takes exactly 36 hours, an accidental Iron Butt Bun Burner, complete with gas station junk food (thanks Honda, for the built-in cup holders) and emergency roadside pit stops.
My buzz flickers around 1 a.m. and I duck into a brightly lit Best Western in Florence, South Carolina. I don’t bother to unpack the bike. So far, I’ve knocked only 700 miles off my quest for Key West, but that’s on top of 200 pre-dawn miles to get the Wing and that sad, sleepless night in the dirty motel. I hit the pillow hard, my head empty for the first time in weeks. No route to choose for tomorrow, just jump back on the asphalt river and row south until the road ends.
THE ONLY ROAD THAT MATTERS
In the morning, I’m greeted by an unusual cotton-ball-strewn sky of mammatus clouds that warn me to get a move on. Georgia flies by, and with it goes any chance of riding twisty roads today. I take solace in knowing I have two weeks to ride and rank the mountain roads of Georgia, both Carolinas, and Virginia on my way to return the GL in New York.
In South Carolina, soft mammatus clouds hint at more unsettled weather, not a huge concern thanks to the Gold Wing’s inherent stability and available electronic interventions.
And besides, it’s all too apparent this is exactly what I need right now. Tedium. Just a straight road, an empty head, and a comfortable motorcycle.
It’s just past 9 p.m. when I finally touch down on the famous Overseas Highway with 122 miles to go. It’s dark, but I’ve ridden this unique road and its 42 bridges so many times I can sense the bright color gradations of the surrounding waters. There is a familiar smell, too, a penetrating humidity that lingers in these islands like a briny musk.
While the straight, miles-long bridges of Florida’s Overseas Highway provide a unique and pleasurable experience, two days later I’m jonesing for the tight corners and less crowded spaces to the north.
Instead of feeling wrung out from the long ride, I’m wide awake. The miles from Big Pine Key to Key West are quiet and slow: dreamlike. Forgotten are complaints about the flies in my room in Philly, the rash on my ankles, my disillusionments back home, the baby girl who grew up.
Finally, at midnight, I arrive at The Paradise Inn feeling deeply tired yet completely cleansed by the long hours in the saddle.
In fact, I get a text from Hannah at 11:47 p.m., just as I’m crunching into the gravel parking lot of the historic inn I booked from a rest stop in Virginia. “Is this where you’re staying?” she asks. I’m moved that she’s followed my ride online, and I’ll cry tomorrow when balloons and a bouquet of birthday flowers arrive at my room.
It’s an awesome day of celebration. I ride a bicycle to a swimming beach, see my first six-toed Hemingway cat, eat seafood stew, and take in the sunset from Mallory Square. There’s a burlesque show, and finally, cake from a dimly lit dessert shop called Better Than Sex.
I laugh every time I see this photo of me posing at the Southernmost Point marker. We’ve all been there: intangibly compelled to secure “must-have” touristy keepsakes, often at great cost. For this one, it is a 45-minute queue in sweltering humidity in a black Aerostich while surrounded by inquisitive tourists in beachwear. Who can relate?
But the real gift of being in Key West is feeling cleansed by the long miles that brought me here. A reminder that an awesome ride isn’t always about a curvy road, scenery, or even the people with whom you share the ride.
Sometimes the best ride is as close as the seat of your motorcycle. And as far as a fast road will take you.
Key West is a treasure that must be experienced to be understood. Sure, it’s blessed to be surrounded by inviting Gulf waters and typically pleasant weather, but the island is so much more about a vibe – about history and food and music and doing whatever feels right, at whatever time of day.
In my favor, I do not spend money on fancy tropical drinks or conch shells.
Connecticut Route 43 has new tar, which encourages a pace Muriel would not have preferred. Photos by the author.
She’s taking her first ride on a motorcycle. Posthumously, as it turns out, but my Aunt Muriel is along for the ride, her ashes secretly stowed in my top case.
Muriel had not been a fan of motorcycles. She found them too fast and noisy and their riders too careless and selfish. For decades she lived near the coast in south Florida where a grid of congested, multi-lane streets put motorcycles right next to her. The ones she encountered, at least the fast and loud ones that stood out in her mind, didn’t give her much to like.
East River Road in Riverton, Connecticut, winds along the Farmington River through People’s State Forest. Muriel’s ashes are along for the ride, stowed in my top case.
While she enjoyed hearing stories of my long-distance adventures on motorcycles, she always made one thing quite clear: “You will never get me on a motorcycle!”
Now, as the miles are adding up, a thought keeps bouncing through my brain: Would Muriel have found this ride okay?
Muriel with Steve Efthyvoulou (right) and your humble scribe on one of our two-wheeled visits to her home in the North Carolina mountains.
Her attitude about motorcycles and their riders evolved after she retired and moved to the mountains of western North Carolina – one of the best motorcycling regions anywhere. When Muriel first took up residence in the town of Franklin, my wife, Sheila, and I drove down for a visit. Muriel drove us to lunch at a barbecue place she liked in the town of Highlands.
As we motored south on State Route 28, the road became tremendous, with baby’s-bottom-smooth tar and continuous tight turns, nicely banked. On one side of the road were jagged outcroppings, and on the other a fast-moving river in a rocky ravine. She pulled her car into a lay-by and drove us behind a waterfall.
On U.S. Route 221 west of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, a face seems to be emerging from the mountain.
Muriel was not what you’d call an expert driver, but to her credit, she stayed in her own lane on this intensely curvy road. Sheila was pregnant at the time and sat nervously in the back seat, clutching her rounded belly and hoping our destination was close. In stark contrast, I was thinking how fantastic this road would be on a motorcycle. I mentioned this to Muriel, and she suggested I come back riding one. “Bring a friend,” she said. “More than one if you like.”
This invitation, I later learned, was despite a homeowner association rule that did not allow motorcycles in Muriel’s neighborhood. “I don’t have a motorcycle,” she explained, “but if visitors come to see me and arrive on their cycles, there’s not much I can do about that, is there?” Muriel believed that it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Our bikes cast early morning shadows on corn ready for harvest in Franklin Township, New Jersey.
Over the next 15 years, I took every opportunity to visit her with one, two, or three friends on motorcycles. We would arrive on quiet Hondas and BMWs, ride slowly through her neighborhood, and offer a friendly wave to anyone we encountered. Forgiveness was never required.
Muriel’s home was on a hilltop, providing an impressive view of the mountains where those roads we came to ride lay waiting. Her neighborhood emptied onto Route 28 (aka Moonshiner 28), and gems like Wayah Road, the Cherohala Skyway, U.S. Route 129 (Tail of the Dragon), and the Blue Ridge Parkway were there to be enjoyed. On every visit we discovered new roads.
Where the Skyline Drive ends, the Blue Ridge Parkway begins.
We’d return from a day’s ride excited and full of stories, then take Muriel out for dinner. Over these meals, she got to know an orthopedic surgeon, a military logistician, a powerplant engineer, a metal fabricator, a warehouse manager, and a truck driver – each a gentleman, a gracious guest, and a motorcyclist.
Steve pilots his Honda ST1300 through a corridor of corn.
One time Muriel casually asked if we’d help her change out the storm windows for screens. “You’ll keep an old lady off a stepladder,” she explained. We installed those screens, and on every subsequent visit we asked for her honey-do list. Leaky faucets, wobbly towel bars, and uncooperative wi-fi never stood a chance. Muriel came to appreciate that not every motorcycle was too fast and noisy, nor every rider too careless and selfish. When talking with her church lady friends, she referred to us as her gentlemen friends on motorcycles.
This Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, Labrador pup approached us in full wag mode but was quickly corralled by his protective mother. (Good dog.)
Now, on a warm Sunday at summer’s end, I depart my home in western Massachusetts and point my BMWR 1200 RT south and west. Weaving through the Berkshire Hills of Connecticut, I seek out places Muriel would have liked: Saville Dam in Barkhamsted, East River Road overlooking the Farmington River, and historic covered Bull’s Bridge across the Housatonic River. At the New York border, the road becomes Dogtail Corners Road … Muriel would have chuckled at the name. She would have been less amused by the 10-mph hairpin turns on Dutchess County Route 22 east of Pleasant Ridge Road, but I lean in to savor them.
Muriel would have chuckled at the other name of Dutchess County Route 22 in New York State.
I curve through the Bear Mountain and Harriman State Parks into scenic northern New Jersey, where Steve Efthyvoulou joins the ride. Over the years, Steve arrived at Muriel’s on a motorcycle more often than anyone except me, and on this ride, he is helping me to fulfill a request: Muriel had directed that her ashes be “scattered in the North Carolina mountains.” No specific location was indicated, so I asked Steve to join me in seeing this through appropriately. He agreed without hesitation.
Amish farms like these present a pastoral landscape in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
The next morning, we are rolling at first light. Steve has plotted a route to keep us off main roads, so we’re riding through small New Jersey towns, past fields of corn ready for harvest. We cross into Pennsylvania, and in Lancaster County the distinct sights of Pennsylvania Dutch country abound. Amish farmers with a team of four mules are harvesting the first row of corn, right next to the road. A bonnet-clad teacher is holding class outside as children dressed in homespun clothes sit attentively. Farther on, an older group of boys enjoys recess on a baseball diamond. I’ve been told Monday is laundry day for Amish families, and countless clotheslines brimming with union suits and long-legged underpants offer anecdotal evidence. At an intersection, a young buggy operator struggles with her charge. Steve points out that teenagers aren’t typically the best drivers – even when driving a horse.
As we return north through Virginia, this Blue Ridge Parkway lay-by at 3,700 feet elevation affords a panoramic view of the Arnold Valley.
On Pennsylvania Route 372 we cross the expansive Muddy Run hydro power project, which uses excess power from the grid to pump water from the dammed Susquehanna River into a lake. During peak power demand, water flows down from the lake through turbines that generate electricity. The lake, essentially, is a battery. It’s also the center of an area operated as a park.
Midday finds us in Maryland, and what would a lunch stop in the Free State be without crab cakes? Muriel would have given two claws up. After a brief run through the state of West Virginia, we continue through western Virginia to Harrisonburg for the night.
My bike’s reflection reveals steady rain during a break on the BRP.
In the morning we hop on Skyline Drive to curve through Shenandoah National Park. On a dreary weekday after Labor Day, the few vehicles we encounter are noticeably disregarding the painfully slow 35-mph speed limit. After we join the Blue Ridge Parkway, the rain begins. Beyond Roanoke we shift to U.S. Route 221, and the rain continues to fall hard and steady, but as Steve reminds me, a great road in the rain is still a great road. In the town of Boone, North Carolina, we call it a day. Torrential rain and flash flood warnings will continue through the next 36 hours, so we opt for a rest day in this happening college town in the mountains.
The 35-mph speed limit on Skyline Drive provides all kinds of time to take in the scenery. Muriel would have liked that more than we do!
A day later, morning arrives with brilliant sun and temperatures in the low 40s. With heated gear plugged in, we make an early start. Branches and limbs litter the roads in a testament to the fierce storms that had rolled through. Steve shares warnings of road hazards ahead, a great benefit of bike-to-bike intercom. Especially in this region of Appalachia, the mountains form a creased and crumpled landscape, and the roads built into it twist and turn like a roller-coaster ride that you control. Rock outcroppings are common, and some are fascinating, such as one on U.S. 221, west of Blowing Rock, that looks like a face emerging from the mountain. Beyond North Cove we turn right on State Route 226 and left on State Route 226A to partake in another asphalt masterpiece.
Then, somewhere beyond Little Switzerland, an appropriate spot in the North Carolina mountains reveals itself and Muriel’s final request is fulfilled.
Dense gray clouds signal impending rain on Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park, Virginia.
Professionally, Muriel had been a city clerk, certifying elections, officiating weddings, and serving as president of the municipal clerks’ international association. She traveled extensively for work and in retirement. A simple church-going lady, she loved conversation, voiced strongly held opinions, and agreed to disagree (agreeably). One thing Muriel and I disagreed about was motorcycles, though curiously they brought us closer together. She knew how much motorcycles matter to me and that she lived in a special place to enjoy them, so of course I should come visit with friends.
On this trip, I gained the satisfaction of ensuring that Muriel’s wish to find rest in the mountains of North Carolina was met, and in the process Steve and I enjoyed some amazing roads. But there’s no escaping the irony that Muriel’s final ride was also her first ride on a motorcycle.
