Park in the Driveway and...

Drive on the Parkway.

August 8 was the second Saturday and the second lengthy ride with Mr. Crunchy after getting him back from July's captivity. I've a map of NC and SC (with eastern Georgia in there by default) and I'm highlighting the different roads as I ride them on the bike. After reviewing some non-yellow lines of attack, I decided to go the back way up to Cherokee, NC, hop on the Blue Ridge Parkway and go to the Brevard area before heading back home. Some of the roads have been ridden ad infinitum since they are the main arteries to get into the curvy material, so once again I rode the familiar 183 up to Walhalla, and then headed north on 28.

The previous weekend, I'd hung a left onto Warwoman Road, but this week kept going north on 28 all the way to Highlands, NC. Behind an Acura. That didn't like curves. Or the convenient pulloffs which would have allowed the motorcyclist behind said Acura to proceed at a comfortable pace. I'm not one to zoom past folks on a double yellow line in a blind curve on a road I'm unfamiliar with. But I am one to gesture to each and every pulloff that was passed, and giving the universal, "Go there! Go there now!" gesture. Once we made it up to Highlands, they turned east on 64, much to my unmitigated delight, since I was heading west. At the stop sign where you turned on to 64, another rider came alongside and asked if I was from Walhalla, since he'd seen me pick up Highway 28 there. I said no, I was from Greenville, and he asked which way I was riding, and if I minded if he rode along. I didn't care if he came along...but I didn't plan on waiting for him, either. Got through Highlands, continuing on 64/28, and the new impediment to the full enjoyment of the curvature thereabouts was a Ford Escape.

Hi.A.Wa.Tha.

That guy...I still shake my head at him refusing to make way for someone who was on a more agile machine. Yes, he's every right to the road that I have. But dude, it would have been simple courtesy to allow the bikes to pass, if you can't take the curves faster than 18 mph. Lots of pullouts. At one point, I was riding behind him with my left elbow on the tank bag and my head supported on my left hand - instead of Rodin's Thinker, I was Rodin's Frustrated Rider. Not too catchy a title...probably wouldn't have made it into the museums. Ok. Rant is done.

Once the passing zone appeared, so did a road without a stinking Escape in front of me. Rode on through Franklin, NC, and followed 28 north of town. My tagalong rider went south on 441 here, so I was back to solo. I wasn't sure how much further it would be until the next gas station, so I made a quick stop at the first station I saw outside of Franklin. The station had...character. Yeah, character...that's it. It's a place the good old boys like to visit and get their fresh bait and old moon pies. After finishing my Skor bar and root beer, I asked the lady at the cash register if they had a restroom, since I didn't see any signs inside. She said the door at the end of the sidewalk outside was for the women's restroom. I asked if there was a key to it, and she got this look. She said, no, there wasn't a key, and honestly, she wasn't sure if it did lock. (She only works there on weekends, too.) Before going back to the bike, for curiosity's sake, I went to the second door at the end of the sidewalk. The outside had an empty hasp and eye you could padlock, but the handle was unlocked. I opened the door and looked in. Closed the door and kept walking. I've got a lot lower standards than a lot of women I know when it comes to restrooms, but...this one was beyond me. If you think you can imagine it, you can't. If you add a few splatters and questionable smell, you're getting close.

Once I left the gas station, I was finally onto some uncharted roads for me. It was a nice road, nothing too exciting for the first few miles. A curve came in here and there, but not too much. I had an "aha" moment at one point on the ride. On the "Top One List" for motorcycle safety books is Proficient Motorcycling by David Hough, and I remember reading one section where he'd talked about being aware of the roads, and how the surface can differ from county to county, depending on their maintenance and composition. When I passed the sign that marked entrance into Swain County, there was a corresponding line on the road differentiating between the surface in Macon County and in Swain County. The surface in Swain was more granular...like 100 grit sandpaper as opposed to 220 in Macon County. It seemed to grab the tires better, which was fine with me, because shortly after entering Swain County, Highway 28 became every bit as twisty and fun as Highway 60 had been on the Georgia Pie Ride. I've got to give this road a few extra points, mainly because the surface was pristine. In Georgia, you could feel the bike undulate across the tar snakes that were all over the road, which tended to ratchet the pucker factor. In NC, it was sweepy, turny, twisty fun. The kudzu is blooming right now, too, and the perfume was an extra nice touch to the scene.

All good things come to an end, and sure enough, a stop sign made an appearance. At this point, I had to make a quick jog on Hwy 74 before getting back onto 19, and going through Bryson City and heading on to Cherokee. I knew the Parkway went to Cherokee, and I started looking for signs. I saw one that actually had the word 'Parkway' on it. But only one. I ended up going through town, past the casino before realizing I should have taken a left turn at Albuquerque, so I did a double left (also known as u-turn) and followed other signs which betokened imminent appearance of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. That's when I finally saw my second parkway sign (something like exit. exit now! exit fast! incontinent sheep!)

The ride on the parkway was a tall glass of cold water on a sweltering day. I had an unheard of 25 mile stretch with no one in front of me. At other times, there were two cars in front, but they pulled off. The curves! The trees! The tunnels! The views! It was delovey. What was even nicer was all the traffic...going the opposite direction. Bwahahaha! It was incredible. As the road climbed, it got cooler, and even though it was around 90 back in Greenville, I had to stop and put on my rain jacket (see! I learned!!) to act as a wind barrier. There were some passing clouds and rain ahead of me, which turned into cotton on the bottom of the valleys. Great pictures, couldn't ask for better traffic, and the weather was so refreshing. Dude.

My southward and homeward spur off the parkway was 276, heading down into Brevard. As I wended my way south and lower in elevation, I passed through one warm pocket of humid air that completely fogged over both of my rear view mirrors, which was pretty funny. They cleared in short order, but I picked my way down the road carefully because it was newly damp from the passing showers and I didn't want the bike to decide to lay down and take a nap anywhere.

About halfway to Brevard, there is a waterfall on the east side of the road, and as I rounded the curve, at the top of the parking area for the falls, I saw a BMW bike that looked familiar. Next to it stood a rider in a gray suit with a yellow stripe down the side, who was talking to another rider dressed in black, standing beside a white sportbike. Focused on faces, and realized I was passing the two Karls from the Pie Ride! Super cool! I did a quick turnaround about 50 feet down the road and pulled back up to chat a minute. It was a surprise to see them, and really neat to see folks I'd ridden with and seen on the BBO forum many times. Kind of felt like being members of the same secret society :) They'd left the Atlanta area around 10 a.m. and took a leisurely lunch in Clayton (having a heated discussion about 'straight' fries and the 'other' fries) before heading across on Warwoman Road. Small world indeed! Of course, Karl the Elder was the one who'd told me about her, and I was happy to report I'd followed up on his advice and found her the previous weekend.

After about 20 minutes, we each continued our separate ways. The guys were going north and west to Maggie Valley for the night and heading back to Georgia the next day. I kept going south to Brevard and stopped for supper. It was right at 6 p.m., and I'd been on the road since shortly after 11 a.m. My head ached and I was ready for a stop. After food and fuel, I only had another 60 odd miles to make it home, and I pulled into my driveway around 7:40. Total miles for the day ended up being right at 285. Since then (two weeks) I've only put 120 miles on the bike (egads!)...more to follow in the next blurb.

(P.S. the artsy black and white shot of the bike at the bottom of the webpage is from this trip, too.)

Warwoman and the Rain Dance

August 1, I didn't leave the house to ride until late, since the weather looked pretty iffy in the morning. I headed out around 1 p.m., grabbed a bite over in Pickens, heading west on 183 towards Walhalla and curvy land. On the Pie Ride through the Georgia mountains, Karl the elder had mentioned "Warwoman Road" being a prime stretch of road, and after some google map searching, I found it, connecting Highway 28 with 441/76. This was my goal for the day, just to sample the goods.

She's one twisted sister!

Starting from the east, the curves are all bunched up like a slinky laying on its side. Many of the curves are blind, so I wasn't overly adventurous. After some thinking, I realized that most of the good curves in this neck of the woods are blind curves, usually due to all of the trees. I love the trees, but sometimes I wonder how much fun I could have on a nice curvy road where my line of vision extends more than 12 feet in front of the bike. I'll let you know when I find them.

The road wends through the Warwoman Dell and the western half was more gentle in the twists and gradually drops you off in Clayton, GA. From looking at the map, I'd decided to take another road up to Highlands, NC, which headed that way just north of Clayton. It started off as GA 246, but changed over to 106 once you crossed the NC border (I HATE it when they do that...that's what almost messed me up in SD/NE). As I was going north on 441 to pick up 246, a very smrt (no, Sebastian, that's not a typo) driver decided to turn left in front of me. It wouldn't have been so bad if the driver had kept a constant rate of speed throughout his turn. However, there were about 4 other cars trying to pile into the same driveway, so he ended up slowing his rate of travel enough that he was still about halfway across my lane by the time I went past him.

I figured that would be a good time to whale someone with the horn. I pushed the button and heard...a big fat zero! Yikes! My beloved horn was dead. I thought something might have come loose when they were taking it apart and putting it back together at the shop (which turned out to be the case exactly...got it fixed before heading in to work the next week). But still...I felt kind of naked without the horn.

Happily, the super nice curves and generous passing zones on 246/106 were enough to offset the bummer of the horn. That, combined with the fact that the curves were all with an upward gradient (downward curves are much more squiffy) made it fun to leave the cars behind. I eventually had to stop at one of the overlooks because it was such a nice view. When I'd left Clayton, I was skirting a pretty big system of rain, but managed to stay behind it, riding on wet pavement, but staying dry on the bike. From my vantage point at the overlook, one direction was all sunny with puffy clouds hanging out with some Bob Ross "happy trees" (pictured above). Swinging 180 degrees, the view was that of a dark, foreboding, potentous mass of clouds seeking out motorcyclists whom it might persecute. That was the direction I was heading.

Once I got to Highlands, it started to sprinkle, and as I went through town and picked up Highway 28 going back south towards Walhalla, the rain intensified for about two minutes. However, it soon dropped off and settled back into fitful sunshine as I kept going south. About 25 miles south of Highlands, Hwy 28 meets up with 107, which heads sharply back to the northeast, running the opposite side of the letter Y to Hwy 28. I wanted to meet up with Hwy 130, which has a nice connector, and then find some random route back home.

Up to this point, I'd gotten damp a couple of times, but quickly dried out. When I got onto 107, I was heading northeast, almost directly back into the line of the storm that had gone through Clayton and Highlands. Before I'd left home, I had consciously decided not to bring any rain gear with me. It's August, and the danger of hypothermia is slim, right? Right. However, when you do end up riding into a soaking downpour, and progressing with the storm for roughly 25 miles of travel time, you will cool off. And think fond thoughts of your Frogg Toggs at home. About 16 miles into the torrent, I felt like I was sitting in a swimming pool. Even though I was wearing my mesh jacket, once it got soaked and clung to me as a second skin, the rain started to hurt every once in a while. I'm sure I didn't feel nearly as bad as the two Harley riders in front of me, however. The guy in front of me was bald, and the one in front of him had a sleeveless shirt on. Jeans and street shoes. They eventually pulled off, but by then, we were on the road connecting to 130, and I knew if I could just get back to heading south, I'd ride out of it.

Sure enough, once the southerly angle was introduced, the rain lessened, lessened, dribbled and stopped. And I was a drowned rat on a Ninja. From then, I decided to take the long way home to give the sun a better chance to dry me out. Headed south on 130 to 183, to 188 and in to Seneca, where I picked up 123. Rode through Clemson and Easley and veered off at the local dirt track to head home. It was easily an hour and a half ride before I got back into town and stopped at my local favorite Guatamalen chicken shack. The only thing still damp was the hem of my shirt where the jacket was over it. Oh yeah, my toes were pruned, too. The water was probably running in from the top of my boots when I rode. The socks were sopping, but the boots were dry by the next morning. Total mileage for the day was somewhere around 180ish.

As the humorous end note to the day, I was riding the last four lane road on my way to the Chicken Camper (also known as Pollo Campero) and got stuck behind two guys on sport bikes at a light. They'd occasionally glance back (izzat a gurl back 'air?) and were so busy not paying attention to riding that the light was green for a few seconds before they decided to notice. (Too bad that horn wasn't working!) At the next light, all three of us were side by side across the two lanes. Neither of them had any gear on (shorts and tennis shoes do NOT count), and again, the surreptitious glances into my lane. I'm not looking their way, and with the tinted shield, I get to be Anonymous Girl. The light changed and I moved on. Didn't peel out of there, but just went. For a hundred fifty feet, I was alone, but shortly thereafter heard this high pitched whine that accompanies an inline four engine of a sport bike being wound way out, and I was passed on my left by one of the guys. Riding a wheelie. For about two blocks. I was so impressed by this display of manliness, I followed him, begged for his signature and breathlessly asked for riding tips. Um. No. I stayed in my lane and filtered ahead of him at the next light, glad the Chicken Camper was only a few more blocks down the road.