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.