And Another Thing...

As the countdown commenced for the last trip, it always seemed there was just one more thing...and then one more...and just-this-last-thing that kept having to be added. Surely, this trip will be different, right? I'll have it all mapped out! I'll be using those things from the last trip, so what else could I possibly need?

What else? Well, let's see:

In May, I didn't need a heated vest or heated grips (well, they wouldn't have been bad that morning in Minnesota). In May, I didn't need to have a renewed passport to go into Canada. In May, I didn't realize my rain pants were too dang short. In May, I didn't need winter gloves. Or a new odometer, and a valve job. I could have used the touring seat, but didn't have one then. Didn't have an EZPass transponder (which is going to rock on this trip!)

Sigh.

Maybe for the next big trip I'll have everything I need, instead of having to buy out the store. You think?

(Ignore the man behind the curtain muttering about tires, sprockets, powder coating, handguards, and lowered pegs. He's just a troublemaker.)

How Do You Like Them Apples?

As some of you may recall, I had some pretty amazing adventures on my road trip back in May. One of the most memorable events was when my bike died right after I had passed through the little town of Lake City, Minnesota. For a quick refresher, click here for the night I broke down, and here for the following day.

Jump forward four months to the present day. I received a call from the mail room at work yesterday morning that there was a box of apples downstairs for me. I wondered...there were two options...one was a branch manager who had promised to send some cherries from Washington state when they were in season. He didn't manage to send any and I thought he might have sent a box of apples as a consolation prize. The other option I thought it might be was a delivery from Pepin Heights. When I got downstairs, I looked for the return address, and when I saw "Lake City," I did a little happy dance! I'd emailed Dennis earlier in September to ask about shipping times to a local retailer, but didn't expect such a gracious gift.

The box held twelve pounds, which translated into 18 of the most delicious apples out there. No...correct that...nine of the most popular apples out there (and drippingly delicious - HoneyCrisp) and nine of an upcoming star that is simply incredible. Dennis Courtier, who owns Pepin Heights, had told me some about this new apple, the SweeTango, while I got to tour the orchard in May, and he said it was the best apple he'd ever tasted. That's like Bach saying, "That's the best fugue I've ever heard."

The first orchard to commercially produce HoneyCrisp apples was Pepin Heights, which, up until recently had the dominant market share of the fruit. For those of you who have tasted the HoneyCrisp, you understand why people are willing to pay a premium for this fruit...its texture and taste are incomparable. Or at least, were incomparable. As the popularity of the fruit has spread, the trees are being grown in less than ideal locations that have compromised the quality.

The SweeTango should not be going down that same path, however, as it is being treated as a "managed variety" and Pepin Heights has been given the exclusive license to commercially distribute the SweeTango, limiting the production to select orchards within a growers' cooperative called Next Big Thing. With HoneyCrisp, anyone could grow the trees, and the University of Minnesota's apple breeding program (which developed both of these varieties) was paid a $1.30 fee per tree until the patent expired last year. With the loss of the patent, the program has lost nearly half of their funding for the program.

This time, they're being a little wiser with the distribution, limiting the quantity, ensuring the quality, and on top of the $1 per tree, are also going to receive 4.5% royalties in perpetuity, which should make a huge difference for the school's income. The HoneyCrisp brought in a little over $8 million to the breeding program. It will be interesting to see how much of a difference this arrangement will make for the university program. From the taste of things, I'd say a lot.

With all of the hype I've heard and read about the SweeTango, I was a little afraid to try one, just in case it didn't live up to the mighty reputation that had been fashioned for it. I cut up one for my co-workers to sample, and when one of the ladies took a bite, the first reaction was, "Oh, that's good." Then, "Oh my, I could eat 20 of these!" and, "It's so crisp and sweet, and even has a tang to it!" I mentioned that might be why it's called the SweeTango! Encouraged by her reaction, I bit into my first slice. The first impression is good, but it's the second one that gets you. It's a subtle flavor that you can't fully appreciate on the first bite. It's the next bite and the next which start to flesh out the nuanced flavors that dance. If you think an apple is just an apple, you would leave such foolish thoughts behind you after having one of these masterpieces.

As something like this must be eaten to be believed, I did my fair share of proselytizing at work, to the extent that, when I share my last two apples tomorrow morning, I will have only eaten a grand total of 3/4 of one SweeTango and one whole HoneyCrisp. It was rather nice to give the SweeTango out with its provenance, including the fact that it is in extremely limited distribution this year, as this is the beginning of the run for them, and no one else down here in South Carolina will be able to experience anything like it. Have I got you interested yet? Put SweeTango on your calendar for next year. It will be worth the wait!

(Much of my info above came from here, here and here. There is a YouTube video here, and you can even see Rose traipsing around the orchard at 2:52 :)

Here's Your Sign

I walk in this morning, helmet in hand, go to the cubicle next to mine, take off my jacket and hang it up, and unzip and step out of my riding pants. Take my lunch to the fridge and come back to sit down and undo my boots (loud velcro) and change out my shoes. This new sales guy who sits across the aisle looked over from his cubical and said, "So, did you ride that bike in today?"

I was tempted...so tempted.

Woe and Alas!

Ok, maybe that's a little dramatic, but the class in NC wasn't exactly uneventful. I've now become an MSF statistic.

The day started inauspiciously enough, at 4:40 a.m. when I rolled (stumbled, staggered) out of bed to get ready. Riley was on the couch and looked at me as if I'd lost my mind for getting up that early. I couldn't really argue with him. I'd laid out everything the night before, so I didn't have to think too much when getting dressed. The only momentary question I had was whether or not to wear the quilted liners that go in my mesh riding pants. Most mornings have been cool lately, and since I was going to be gaining a few thousand feet elevation by the time I hit Franklin, I figured I'd add them. Another last minute addition to the tank bag was a light Marmot jacket. I thought that might be overkill, but I'd rather have it and not need it, than vice versa.

5:10 a.m. and I was rolling down my driveway. I had two options to take for my route. One was on a four lane, divided highway that was straightforward and boring, and one was on my typical two lane road going through the twisties. The more engaging route was estimated to take 20 minutes longer than the Plain Jane, but that's the one I'd been planning on, and the reason I left so flippin' early.

Out on 183, I went about 15 minutes before I pulled off at a gas station to add my extra layer of the Marmot jacket, thoroughly glad I'd tossed in in my tank bag. The ride was probably in the upper 50s, and it felt cold (which is great, considering I'm riding to New England in six weeks). I tried to imagine how heated grips and a heated vest would help compensate, and I think I'll need some warmer gloves, but should be good the rest of the way. I made my typical time to Walhalla, at just under an hour, and then started north on Highway 28. There was one truck in front of me, but he pulled off after a few miles, and the majority of the ride up to Highlands was just me and the road. The trees overhung the road so densely in places that the nearly full moon didn't make much of an impression, but in other places where there was a gap, the moonlight almost looked like the dim light of approaching cars.

When it comes to night riding on the roads, the SC highways get the highest marks for visibility. Georgia doesn't do too bad, but their reflective pavement markers are spaced more widely apart, and in NC, whoever designed the visibility of the road markings should be shot.

When I was nearly in Highlands, the sky was starting to lighten, and as I passed a scenic overlook, I decided to turn around and go back for a shot. Yeah...I've made better decisions in my life. I slowed, and did a u-turn on the road. The road that basically has no shoulder and a steep dropoff into the trees. I didn't keep my head turned enough, and noticed how close I was getting to that fog line. And then crossed that, getting into the grass beside the road. At this point, I just evened out the throttle, and rolled back roadwards getting back on the asphalt without any mishap. And then. The stupid scenic overlook was full of pitted gravel! I gingerly ground to a stop, and got off the bike to stretch and take some pics. The sky was dark enough that the pictures didn't turn out too well, and I've had to do some Picasa adjusting to be able to see anything more than a dark blob.

Once in Highlands, it was about 7:10, and I decided to get into Franklin before stopping for breakfast. The next 11 miles are some of the curviest I've been on, and it was nice to have an unobstructed line of travel. I pulled off at a nicely paved overlook for another set of (dark) pics and got back on the road for the final push into Franklin. Once I got to the outskirts, I pulled a classic NC (and SC) driving tactic of turning left from the right lane, after realizing I was about to miss my road. On this final stretch of road, I rolled in to a bit of a pea soup where the fog was dense enough, it condensed into droplets on my visor and jacket. When I stopped at the Burger King for breakfast, I had to brush off like I'd been in a light rain.

Now, I'll be the first to admit, being a chick on a bike garners me attention. Some of it is desirable, and some of it is not. While I was sitting in BK, eating a quick bite and trying to get some hot coffee into me, there was a guy at the table next to me who kept a running monologue (my contributions mostly 'uh huh', 'yep', and 'hmm'). He told me about a '49 Harley he'd bought in '69 for $100 and sold in '72 for $600. That particular bike had been in pieces when he bought it, (even to the point of the clutch bearings being contained in a snuff box), and he put it together only to take it apart and rebuild it. He'd had a motorcycle endorsement until his last license renewal, but decided to drop it since he'd had some dizziness. He still had his CDL, but hadn't had to take a test for that on renewal (and thinks folks should). He couldn't believe he was 65... He was one of those winking types, too. I was kind of glad I only had 10 minutes to spare in there.

I made it to the class with about five minutes to spare. We had eight students and two teachers. Interestingly enough, five of the students were also Rider Coaches for MSF, and I got the impression that the NC MSF division is a bit of a soap opera. Of the two other remaining students, one was Greg, a very cautious man in his sixties who'd only learned to ride the previous year, and had put 10,000 miles on his Wee Strom, none of those miles being on an interstate. The other was Jim, probably late 30's, whose toe sliders had seen some action in the curvier parts of the NC roads, while riding his Gixxer.

The first half of the class was inside, doing group discussion. Nothing groundbreaking really...talk about skill and risk, perception and reaction. They even had a part about the 'voices' - which tied in nicely to the video I'd linked in an early post from Captain Crash in Idaho. One of the big focuses of this course was on setting up and entering curves. They mentioned counter leaning, normal leaning, and then an exaggerated lean, hanging partly off the bike. The main benefit to the last type is increasing the ground clearance in the curve, since you can keep the bike more upright in a turn that way. We broke for lunch right at noon, planning to meet back at the riding range in an hour. I went to lunch with the coaches and got some dang good sliced pork barbecue.

Once on the range, I took off the quilted liners for my pants (or trousers, if you will), and switched out to my mesh jacket. We had eight different exercises to do, and most of them were identical or similar to the kind of tests done in the intermediate class last year. When I took the test last year, the only point I missed was for stopping in 17 feet instead of 15 feet in the emergency stop. I tend to use both brakes when stopping, and when I'm under a microscope to stop, I find myself tensing up more than I should (am I going the right speed? where are the markers? don't anticipate! keep your head up!) and often overcompensate. Well, it bit me again this year. On about the fourth iteration, and trying not to anticipate or look down, I passed the cue cones to stop, and piled on the brakes, grabbing more front brake than I'm used to. The problem is, that shifts weight off the rear, as inertia makes the bike push forward, and with less weight on the rear, it gets easier to lock up the rear brake, which is what I did. I could feel it squirreling around back there, and my brain was telling my foot not to come off that brake, because if you let off and the rear wheels starts rolling without being aligned with the front wheel, that's the recipe for a highside. I've locked up the rear on several occasions before, in a controlled manner, and this time wasn't that different, except the bike started to tip to the right, and since my foot was NOT coming off that pedal, over we went.

The coach that was nearest came over and helped me pick up Mr. Crunchy and do an inventory. The brake lever is scuffed on the end, and the right footpeg is also a bit chewed up. The saddest part is the right corner of the upper fairing...it's now got this glaring white patch of fiberglass showing through where the paint was skinned clear off. Didn't break anything (not even the mirrors, which are super lightweight plastic) and didn't bruise anything (other than pride). Ironically, before that exercise, Jim had commented how nice the color was, and said if it was ever crunched, the whole bike would have to be repainted to match that pearlized color. Don't know how accurate that is (but will probably find out), but I did find it humorous he mentioned the 'crunch' aspect. At that point, I told him Mr. Crunchy's name...and now it is fitting again. Maybe I should have changed it to Mr. Well Behaved or something...

At any rate, the rest of the exercises went off. We had some curvy courses to do, and I did have a new experience that was pretty cool. While leaned over in a left and then right-hand curve, with boots on the footpegs, I scraped the outside of both boots in the toe area. I'm sure I had the bike leaned over more in those exercises than I've done on the road, and it was good to know how much more room I've got to be able to lean. Some of the 'hang off, but keep the bike upright' exercises were a little counter intuitive to muscle memory, but on my ride home I took Warwoman Road again, on purpose, to try out some of the techniques from the class.

A little after 5:20 p.m., we left the range to go back to the classroom for a final test, do a course eval, and (for me) fill out some paperwork on my crash. By the time it was all said and done, I headed out from the classroom around 10 'til 6 and stopped at a Shell station to get gas and some caffeine. My early wakeup call was starting to talk to me, and the ride home was just going to be long. After fueling, I went into the store and bought an Oreo Good Humor bar, and a Starbucks Doubleshot with healthy crap added. I sat down on the island, leaning on one of the pillars supporting the roof, and ate the ice cream bar. At this point, the guy who'd pulled up in a pickup truck to the fuel pump on the back side of mine proceeded to ask questions about where I'd ridden, what type of bike that was (a BMW?), where I was from, and then told me what he'd done that day, where he lived and that his parents had a house in Greenville. He was a young pup and fairly innocuous. Right about the time the ice cream was done, he headed off, wishing me a good ride home.

The next order of business was to drink the Doubleshot thingy. I really like the little cans of Doubleshots that Starbucks puts out, but this thing was in a mega can, with Ginseng and stuff added, and since they didn't have the little cans, I figured I'd try it. Blech. I didn't get through the whole can, but in the time that I stood there and got through 2/3s of it, another guy who'd just pulled up on a Harley to get gas started asking questions. He wasn't really shy, but I had to laugh when he guessed my age to be somewhere between 18 and 20. He couldn't believe it when I told him how old I was...he has a daughter who's 21, and he thought I was around her age. He said he had to ask if I was married, and then he commented it was hard to find a woman who like to ride bikes like I did (I'd mentioned my road trip...). He told me he and his buddy (at the gas pump opposite and who had never acknowledged me) were heading back to their hotel after a good day's ride and going to change clothes, grab a few beers and then go look for somewhere to eat, and said I was welcome to join them. I told him I had a dog at home waiting, so I'd be going on my way. He then asked what kind of dog and mentioned he had a Bulldog and a Boxer (the Bulldog was because he was a Georgia fan, since he lives in Savannah, and all). I threw away what was left of my drink because I was ready to escape his barrage of questions. Got a wave and smile when I left and was glad to be heading back home.

The ride home was uneventful, and I finally got some good practice in on some of the curve techniques from the class. I know I got through some of the twists coming back at a faster speed than what is my normal wont, until the brake-riding car train showed up ahead of me. I left the Shell station at 6:15 and got home at 8:25, 15 hours and 15 minutes from when I'd left. Riley was asleep on the bed, the best dog in the world EVAR. Once he was fed, watered and restroomed, I went out to get a bite to eat. Hit the sack around 10:30.

Sunday morning, I noticed my neck was really sore on one side, and I thought it might have been from the ride, but upon testing the angles where it was giving me the most grief, I decided it must have been from my fall, and straining to keep my head off the pavement when I went down (didn't totally work...I've got a scuff on my helmet, too). Other than that, no bruises or soreness. Just a crunched bike.

Time for School!

In August of last year, I took an intermediate MSF course at the Spartanburg Community College, which enabled me to get my motorcycle endorsement on my license. The heat index for our day on the riding range was probably around 104 degrees. It was August 1 and 2, and the black asphalt was an inferno to ride on.

Fast forward about 12,000 miles.

Tomorrow will be my next riding safety course to take, and it will be very interesting to take that with the background of road experience I've gotten in the meantime. I was originally scheduled to take a course last Saturday, eagerly anticipating it, but they called me just before noon last Friday to say the course had been canceled, since only two people had signed up. Boo! However, the lady informed me there was another course being offered on September 6 at another community college, and it was supposedly going to be more sportbike oriented.

If that's truly the case, I've struck gold! It's the same price as the other course (and I'm getting a full refund since they canceled on me) and will be more tailored to my bike. The class starts at 8 a.m. and is in Franklin, NC, which is a shade over two hours away, so I'll have to set my alarm for 5 a.m. I'll be going the same route as my last weekend trip, but this time should be early enough there won't be any slowpoke drivers dampening the fun quotient of the road. But on the other hand, I also will have other issues to deal with, like riding for over an hour in the dark (which will necessarily slow me down). Payback for that might include a nice sunrise, and I am taking a camera, so perhaps there will be some nice shots for the update post tomorrow.

And, oh yeah, sunny and 82 is the forecast for my class in the North Carolina mountains tomorrow. Yee haw!

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.