Horsehead
Slow Pokin' the Southeast
A few weeks ago I was presented with a dilemma. Like so many others people, due to the current state of world affairs, especially the uptick in C-19 cases, certain plans I had made months in advance were now up in the air, at the mercy of local regulations and mandates, not to mention prudence, responsibility, and a dose of good ol’ fashioned common sense.
To get the full picture, we have to rewind the story, quite a long ways actually. You see, 21 years ago, I had not the means, nor the ability to travel from my home in North Carolina to a multi-day music festival in Birmingham Alabama. I was a teenager at the time and this 3 day event was set to be unparalleled for the music I was into at the time. Bands from all over the country, and a few from around the globe, were going to descend upon thousands of concert goers for 72 hours of music and mayhem. But I was just barely 16 years old and couldn’t work out the logistics. So I missed it. And that was that.
Then, in mid 2019, an announcement was made that the organizers of that event in Y2K were going to be putting on much the same event with many of the same bands as they had done 20 years previously, a 20th anniversary of sorts, slated for, you guessed it - 2020. Well. We all know what happened to those best laid plans. Then, one evening in March, I got an email that said the event had been rescheduled for the the last weekend of September, 2021. On a whim, I bought tickets. I’m a grown up now! I have the means, the ability, and the time to get myself down there for 3 days to recover a missed opportunity of youth!
Then Delta happened… My Brother-in-Law took his family to Disney, and, you guessed it, came back with the ‘rona. He gave it to my sister, and they both were touch and go, in and out of the ER, fighting off pneumonia and all the other particularly nasty effects of this latest go-round.
You might say I was a bit…hesitant. Hesitant to travel out of state to a concert venue and cram myself into crowds of strangers with questionable hygiene. The venue was taking precautions - proof of vax or negative test within 72 hours of the event. It was certainly better than nothing, but was it enough?
In the end I decided that the risk wasn’t worth the reward. My sister and Brother-in-Law had already been sick for weeks, and I really didn't want to join that club. And besides, being in large crowds of people listening to loud music for 3 days straight just isn’t my thing anymore.
So, there I was, staring at a 3 day weekend blocked off on my calendar, and my prior plans out the window. I knew if I sat around the house all weekend, I would kick myself for not going to the festival. But I also knew I was making the right call avoiding tens of thousands of people. What to do what to do…
How about a little motorcycle camping to simultaneously social distance (I hate that term, but there it is, part of our vernacular) and redeem the loss of an otherwise enjoyable weekend? Sign me up! I ran it by my wife; she was happy to tell me to get out of the house for a few days, I was happy to oblige.
I didn’t have hardly any time to plan, so I sat down at my computer and considered which direction I should go.
My mind retraced my route up to Main from the month before: Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York, etc… And then I remembered a conversation I had with a BMW rider as we were sitting side by side, stuck in stop-and-go traffic somewhere on I-81 South. He was on his way home from a weekend riding in West Virginia and was extolling to me the rural beauty and ridiculously good riding.
That was it. West Virginia. Country roads, take me home (for a couple nights).
I scanned Google Maps for good roads, and realized you could pretty much throw a dart at a map of WV and hit good roads. So I narrowed down my focus to what would be easily reached in a day without any interstate riding. That put me somewhere in the middle of the state. I quickly located some potential campsites: primitive, dispersed, and most importantly, free. That set my course for the Monongahela National Forest. I now had a destination and a defined region to explore. I quickly packed my things, gave the bike a good once over, and headed to bed.
The next morning, at 8am, I rolled out of the house and hit the road for parts north and unknown.
After my first gas stop, I headed northwest to some of my favorite local roads that take you from central North Carolina to Southwestern Virginia. My plan was to stay off the interstate entirely and really enjoy the ride from sunup to sundown.
I started out on the back roads that take you from Greensboro, past Hanging Rock State Park and Pilot Mountain, and then up into Virginia. Half way up one of my favorite roads, there is a wonderful overlook. If you take back roads, it’s about 100 miles from my front door and great place to stop and stretch your legs.
I was settling into the ride nicely and knew that I had made the right decision. There’s just nothing quite like twisty back roads on a crisp fall morning, especially on a weekday when traffic is light. For me, the ST11 hums along these roads in a manner that so drama free. It may not be the fastest bike on the block, or the most agile, but for "safe and sane" riding, find 3rd gear, roll off the throttle on the approach, lean in, hit the apex, crank it all the way out, repeat. Sunshine, wind, and the velvety purr of a V4. Such a wonderful way to clear the cobwebs out of one’s head.
From there, my next destination was Marion, VA where I would hop on State Hwy-16, otherwise known as The Back of the Dragon.
Along the way, I stopped at the Historic Shot Tower State Park, as I’d seen it so many times from I-77 but had never taken the time to actually go check it out. There was no one there so no tours that day. But it was still cool to check out something that had been designed so long ago, and was perfectly engineered to make birdshot for black powder shotguns using nothing but gravity and the friction of air. I often ponder how resourceful our ancestors of just a 150 years ago were. If they couldn’t buy it, they’d figure out a way to make it or make do without. How many of the processes and innovations they developed are now lost forever? How long would it take us to figure out how to do things efficiently, the way they did, if we lost modern infrastructure and high speed machines and manufacturing capacity? Scary to think about, really. But I digress…
I arrived in Marion at 12:30 and stopped for a bite to eat. Uncle Phil has trained me to know that really, we all just want to look at pictures of food
… A philly cheese steak before tackling Hwy 16 was just the ticket!
The Back of the Dragon was a lot of fun. Not too technical, not really any pucker factor, if you paced it right. But a solid, exciting ride, and I was glad I planned it in as a part of my route. I continued on through the backwaters and byways of rural West Virginia for many miles, through curious towns with names like “Cucumber”, “Yukon”, and my favorite, “War.” I was truly humbled by what I saw. The abject poverty and economic depression of some of these towns was simply stunning. Towns that had once been the pride of farmers, factory workers, coal miners, and their families, the blue collar everyday folk that made up the backbone of America, now left in various states of disrepair and depression. I say I was humbled because I was sincerely struck by how undeservedly fortunate I am to be here on a motorcycle (a luxury by almost any standard), with the means to take a long weekend and just go out riding for the heck of it, passing so many families that probably are struggling... I hope such towns don't get completely left behind as "progress" marches on.
In the early afternoon, while coming into the town of Welch, WV, I missed my turn and had to double back. I saw a little war memorial and pulled over to stretch my legs and confirm my route. After a few moments analyzing my GPS, I became a bit more aware of my surroundings. I was stopped in front of one of the most unusual and unexpected war memorials I had ever encountered…
According to the plaque this tiny box car was part of the French “Merci Train”. I found a website devoted to the history of these fascinating railroad cars scattered about variously in the middle of nowhere America, “The Merci Train was a train of 49 French railroad box cars filled with tens of thousands of gifts of gratitude from at least that many individual French citizens. They were showing their appreciation for the more than 700 American box cars of relief goods sent to them by (primarily) individual Americans in 1948. The Merci Train arrived in New York harbor on February 3rd, 1949 and each of the 48 American states at that time received one of the gift laden box cars. The 49th box car was shared by Washington D.C. and the Territory of Hawaii. Parades and ceremonies of welcome were conducted in the state capitols and major cities of almost all the states. The largest and most attended was in New York City where more than 200,000 people turned out to welcome that state's assigned box car.”
This particular box car was originally gifted to the state of WV and put on display in Morganton, but as the years passed, it was lost (literally and figuratively) from memory, until it was discovered in a farmer’s field -- the wooden components mostly rotten, the iron parts rusted out. It was brought to a nearby trade school and carefully restored in the late 1990s (if memory serves me, I forgot to take a picture of the sign).
These exact rail cars were used to transport troops and equipment in both WWI and WWII. The sign on the car indicates it can carry 40 men, or 8 horses. 40 men in that tiny car for hours, or even days on their way to the front… I cannot image. But once again, our ancestors never cease to impress.
From Welch, I continued Northeast through the New River Gorge. Of course I had to stop for the obligatory New River Bridge photograph…
At 7:30pm, I arrived at the campsite I’d picked out the evening before. With nothing but a cursory look at Google maps, I really had no idea what to expect. Little did I know that this campsite would be almost 11 miles down a gravel road. It wasn’t exactly what the ST was designed for, but as long as I didn’t get jerky on the throttle and kept her out of the ruts and potholes, it wasn’t too bad. By the time I got to the campsite, I was ready for a break!
In the failing light, I hung my hammock and took a few moments to enjoy the serenity of the river flowing by not 10 yards from where I’d be sleeping.
I didn’t have much time to enjoy any of the scenery, however, as it quickly got dark and I had to make some dinner. Reconstituting freeze dried backpacking meals for the win. Light weight, no prep, no clean up. Perfect for me as a total novice motocamper. The pad thai with chicken was surprisingly good. Or maybe I was just hungry after a 400 mile day on back roads.
Unfortunately I didn’t have time to gather any wood for a fire, and everything was soaking wet anyways, as it had rained the day before. So I sat in the dark, smoked a pipe, and let Ted Simon keep me company and inspire me for tomorrow. I rolled into my hammock at about 9pm, turned off my light, and let nature’s noisemaker overwhelm my senses and lull me to sleep under a blanket of stars.
To be continued…
To get the full picture, we have to rewind the story, quite a long ways actually. You see, 21 years ago, I had not the means, nor the ability to travel from my home in North Carolina to a multi-day music festival in Birmingham Alabama. I was a teenager at the time and this 3 day event was set to be unparalleled for the music I was into at the time. Bands from all over the country, and a few from around the globe, were going to descend upon thousands of concert goers for 72 hours of music and mayhem. But I was just barely 16 years old and couldn’t work out the logistics. So I missed it. And that was that.
Then, in mid 2019, an announcement was made that the organizers of that event in Y2K were going to be putting on much the same event with many of the same bands as they had done 20 years previously, a 20th anniversary of sorts, slated for, you guessed it - 2020. Well. We all know what happened to those best laid plans. Then, one evening in March, I got an email that said the event had been rescheduled for the the last weekend of September, 2021. On a whim, I bought tickets. I’m a grown up now! I have the means, the ability, and the time to get myself down there for 3 days to recover a missed opportunity of youth!
Then Delta happened… My Brother-in-Law took his family to Disney, and, you guessed it, came back with the ‘rona. He gave it to my sister, and they both were touch and go, in and out of the ER, fighting off pneumonia and all the other particularly nasty effects of this latest go-round.
You might say I was a bit…hesitant. Hesitant to travel out of state to a concert venue and cram myself into crowds of strangers with questionable hygiene. The venue was taking precautions - proof of vax or negative test within 72 hours of the event. It was certainly better than nothing, but was it enough?
In the end I decided that the risk wasn’t worth the reward. My sister and Brother-in-Law had already been sick for weeks, and I really didn't want to join that club. And besides, being in large crowds of people listening to loud music for 3 days straight just isn’t my thing anymore.
So, there I was, staring at a 3 day weekend blocked off on my calendar, and my prior plans out the window. I knew if I sat around the house all weekend, I would kick myself for not going to the festival. But I also knew I was making the right call avoiding tens of thousands of people. What to do what to do…
How about a little motorcycle camping to simultaneously social distance (I hate that term, but there it is, part of our vernacular) and redeem the loss of an otherwise enjoyable weekend? Sign me up! I ran it by my wife; she was happy to tell me to get out of the house for a few days, I was happy to oblige.
I didn’t have hardly any time to plan, so I sat down at my computer and considered which direction I should go.
My mind retraced my route up to Main from the month before: Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York, etc… And then I remembered a conversation I had with a BMW rider as we were sitting side by side, stuck in stop-and-go traffic somewhere on I-81 South. He was on his way home from a weekend riding in West Virginia and was extolling to me the rural beauty and ridiculously good riding.
That was it. West Virginia. Country roads, take me home (for a couple nights).
I scanned Google Maps for good roads, and realized you could pretty much throw a dart at a map of WV and hit good roads. So I narrowed down my focus to what would be easily reached in a day without any interstate riding. That put me somewhere in the middle of the state. I quickly located some potential campsites: primitive, dispersed, and most importantly, free. That set my course for the Monongahela National Forest. I now had a destination and a defined region to explore. I quickly packed my things, gave the bike a good once over, and headed to bed.
The next morning, at 8am, I rolled out of the house and hit the road for parts north and unknown.
After my first gas stop, I headed northwest to some of my favorite local roads that take you from central North Carolina to Southwestern Virginia. My plan was to stay off the interstate entirely and really enjoy the ride from sunup to sundown.
I started out on the back roads that take you from Greensboro, past Hanging Rock State Park and Pilot Mountain, and then up into Virginia. Half way up one of my favorite roads, there is a wonderful overlook. If you take back roads, it’s about 100 miles from my front door and great place to stop and stretch your legs.
I was settling into the ride nicely and knew that I had made the right decision. There’s just nothing quite like twisty back roads on a crisp fall morning, especially on a weekday when traffic is light. For me, the ST11 hums along these roads in a manner that so drama free. It may not be the fastest bike on the block, or the most agile, but for "safe and sane" riding, find 3rd gear, roll off the throttle on the approach, lean in, hit the apex, crank it all the way out, repeat. Sunshine, wind, and the velvety purr of a V4. Such a wonderful way to clear the cobwebs out of one’s head.
From there, my next destination was Marion, VA where I would hop on State Hwy-16, otherwise known as The Back of the Dragon.
Along the way, I stopped at the Historic Shot Tower State Park, as I’d seen it so many times from I-77 but had never taken the time to actually go check it out. There was no one there so no tours that day. But it was still cool to check out something that had been designed so long ago, and was perfectly engineered to make birdshot for black powder shotguns using nothing but gravity and the friction of air. I often ponder how resourceful our ancestors of just a 150 years ago were. If they couldn’t buy it, they’d figure out a way to make it or make do without. How many of the processes and innovations they developed are now lost forever? How long would it take us to figure out how to do things efficiently, the way they did, if we lost modern infrastructure and high speed machines and manufacturing capacity? Scary to think about, really. But I digress…
I arrived in Marion at 12:30 and stopped for a bite to eat. Uncle Phil has trained me to know that really, we all just want to look at pictures of food
… A philly cheese steak before tackling Hwy 16 was just the ticket!The Back of the Dragon was a lot of fun. Not too technical, not really any pucker factor, if you paced it right. But a solid, exciting ride, and I was glad I planned it in as a part of my route. I continued on through the backwaters and byways of rural West Virginia for many miles, through curious towns with names like “Cucumber”, “Yukon”, and my favorite, “War.” I was truly humbled by what I saw. The abject poverty and economic depression of some of these towns was simply stunning. Towns that had once been the pride of farmers, factory workers, coal miners, and their families, the blue collar everyday folk that made up the backbone of America, now left in various states of disrepair and depression. I say I was humbled because I was sincerely struck by how undeservedly fortunate I am to be here on a motorcycle (a luxury by almost any standard), with the means to take a long weekend and just go out riding for the heck of it, passing so many families that probably are struggling... I hope such towns don't get completely left behind as "progress" marches on.
In the early afternoon, while coming into the town of Welch, WV, I missed my turn and had to double back. I saw a little war memorial and pulled over to stretch my legs and confirm my route. After a few moments analyzing my GPS, I became a bit more aware of my surroundings. I was stopped in front of one of the most unusual and unexpected war memorials I had ever encountered…
According to the plaque this tiny box car was part of the French “Merci Train”. I found a website devoted to the history of these fascinating railroad cars scattered about variously in the middle of nowhere America, “The Merci Train was a train of 49 French railroad box cars filled with tens of thousands of gifts of gratitude from at least that many individual French citizens. They were showing their appreciation for the more than 700 American box cars of relief goods sent to them by (primarily) individual Americans in 1948. The Merci Train arrived in New York harbor on February 3rd, 1949 and each of the 48 American states at that time received one of the gift laden box cars. The 49th box car was shared by Washington D.C. and the Territory of Hawaii. Parades and ceremonies of welcome were conducted in the state capitols and major cities of almost all the states. The largest and most attended was in New York City where more than 200,000 people turned out to welcome that state's assigned box car.”
This particular box car was originally gifted to the state of WV and put on display in Morganton, but as the years passed, it was lost (literally and figuratively) from memory, until it was discovered in a farmer’s field -- the wooden components mostly rotten, the iron parts rusted out. It was brought to a nearby trade school and carefully restored in the late 1990s (if memory serves me, I forgot to take a picture of the sign).
These exact rail cars were used to transport troops and equipment in both WWI and WWII. The sign on the car indicates it can carry 40 men, or 8 horses. 40 men in that tiny car for hours, or even days on their way to the front… I cannot image. But once again, our ancestors never cease to impress.
From Welch, I continued Northeast through the New River Gorge. Of course I had to stop for the obligatory New River Bridge photograph…
At 7:30pm, I arrived at the campsite I’d picked out the evening before. With nothing but a cursory look at Google maps, I really had no idea what to expect. Little did I know that this campsite would be almost 11 miles down a gravel road. It wasn’t exactly what the ST was designed for, but as long as I didn’t get jerky on the throttle and kept her out of the ruts and potholes, it wasn’t too bad. By the time I got to the campsite, I was ready for a break!
In the failing light, I hung my hammock and took a few moments to enjoy the serenity of the river flowing by not 10 yards from where I’d be sleeping.
I didn’t have much time to enjoy any of the scenery, however, as it quickly got dark and I had to make some dinner. Reconstituting freeze dried backpacking meals for the win. Light weight, no prep, no clean up. Perfect for me as a total novice motocamper. The pad thai with chicken was surprisingly good. Or maybe I was just hungry after a 400 mile day on back roads.
Unfortunately I didn’t have time to gather any wood for a fire, and everything was soaking wet anyways, as it had rained the day before. So I sat in the dark, smoked a pipe, and let Ted Simon keep me company and inspire me for tomorrow. I rolled into my hammock at about 9pm, turned off my light, and let nature’s noisemaker overwhelm my senses and lull me to sleep under a blanket of stars.
To be continued…
