All:
A ride report I started submitting a few months back but never finished. Caveat: I write mostly for my own journals, so excuse the prose...
Enjoy!
It Begins.
As with anyone who has seen the same thing for too long, I was desperate to see something - anything - new. Escaping Texas, then, was less an exercise in ride mechanics and more an exercise in sanity retention. My trip prep was laced with the anticipation of new sights, smells and roads. Well, maybe not TOTALLY new, but at least far enough back in the memory banks as to be CONSIDERED new, and that?s all that matters at my age. As I added a new PowerLet bundle to the tankbag, checked tires and oil and bulbs, did all the clucking and preening one does before setting out, the still-widening grin was hard to miss. Even my wife, ever-sensitized to my pre-ride musings, said aloud: "Honey, you're smiling that smile."
Indeed I was.
Framing argument: I do appreciate the many good things about Texas. The food is good, the gas is pretty cheap and there are delicious quantities of roads, many of them wonderfully unpatrolled and uncaged. The people are delightful and the near absence of winter means riding season lasts for about 363 days. That said, the majority of the roads near me (read: Dallas/Fort Worth) are depressingly straight and, frankly, boring. The same kind of boring that spaghetti is to the pasta family. Spaghetti is palatable and a very fine meal, but from an entertainment value, it can't hold a candle to corkscrew or bowtie pasta. Yeah, yeah, some will protest, and I thoroughly acknowledge the presence of the Hill Country and Big Bend. Those two don't really do it for me: I'm not a big fan of dead and dry, and the Hill Country is, by comparison to my favored roads, depressingly flat and not far enough away to feel like a real trip. Like politics and religion, this discussion has proponents on both sides that are willing and able to beat their drums loudly and longly to little effect; we rarely cross the divide between us. So with a tip of the cap to the Austinians and Big Bendians, I reserve my most lascivious of riding grins for that which exists outside This Great State. That's why I go elsewhere for fave rides, and that's why I did the unthinkable and logged my escape from Texas on the Interstate. I'll confess I didn't leave Slab until just outside of Jackson, MS, giving my ST1100 easy rein, letting her set her own pace (thankfully quick!). And because this is my trip report, I'll mention nothing of that portion of the ride but to say this - "Gas was cheap," and "The exit to the Natchez Trace was clearly marked." I ate a small portion of spaghetti with the anticipation of better pastas yet to come. But the diva of this show WAS and IS the Natchez Trace, and I would be remiss if I let the spotlight stray terribly far from her.
Aside...
I won't delve into the history behind the Natchez Trace - each of you has access to the Web and Libraries and you can, at your leisure, consult those sources. I will say the Department of the Interior does a lovely job maintaining the Trace and this southern jewel deserves a spot on your ?Must Ride One Day? list. Imperative in your trip prep is to pick up the Trace Guide, a freebie flyer provided at various stops along the way, authored by the Government no less, which outlines to the tenth of a mile EVERY historical, cultural and natural landmark along the way. Oh, and there are obvious wooden mile markers every mile along the way, so with all due respect to the fine folks at Garmin, even garden-variety navigators can't get too lost. Dreamy!
I timed this ride just as a hurricane came ashore and slowly dumped it's guts over the southern United States. Many things in my life have occurred under less than optimal circumstances, and this was no exception. In a true "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all" moment, I traveled under the same cloud from Dallas to Somewhere in Central Tennessee, the rain wavering between sporadic to torrential EVERY moment of the trip. Rain, despite its wetness, is not all bad, though. Rain drives tourists and the similarly meek indoors. To wit, there were several spans while riding the Trace when I went 30 minutes or more without seeing another vehicle. Rain also mutes sounds to a dampened hush and deepens colors to lush saturations. Couple the beauty of the Trace with the solitude of traveling it unconcerned about traffic and you get a trip of truly memorable proportions.
Back to the ride...
Taking that clearly marked exit to the Trace from I-20 East places you on mile 87 of the Trace (The Trace itself begins in Natchez, MS, a town that was not on my ride route). Winding north of Jackson, MS, the Trace hugs the coast of Ross Barnett reservoir, giving you occasional glimpses of bogs and swampy areas that must've been enormous obstacles to the original Trace travelers, but are only objects of passing interest to modern day voyagers. Leaving the lake, you begin winding through rolling Mississippi hills and woods that will be your companions for the balance of the day. Late in October, after an unusually dry summer, the colors in Mississippi were almost absent. Various greens were only occasionally broken by a flare of yellow or orange; thankfully, the further north I ventured, the more regular the color became.
Turnouts and points of interest are almost too numerous to mention; truthfully, if you turnout at every opportunity, you might never make it to the northern end of it all. Must-sees include Busby Park, featuring a dramatic ascent several hundred feet to an overlook giving you wonderful views to the East and West. Common sides refer to the "Old Trace," vestiges of the original path settlers, Indians and trappers followed and which the Trace loosely follows. The Old Trace is nothing more than a path, really, tunneling into the woods here and there. At some point, to frame your ride in perspective of the times, you need to dismount and walk a few yards on a segment of the Old Trace. Invariably, you'll descend or turn, leaving all evidence of the modern world behind. For a moment, you'll be surrounded by trees, swallowed by them. You?ll hear only the hush of a breeze in the leaves and snap of twigs underfoot. The Trace consumes you, absorbs you into Itself, and transports you back in time. You'll find yourself imagining walking the Trace as they did years ago. Was the chill you just felt due to the uncertainty of the path ahead, or just the shudder of an autumn breeze? Is it really 2006 or the mid 1850s? So very few places remain in America like that.
The Trace itself may be the ideal ride for the casual vacationer. Much has been said and written about speed limit. While we as a group are probably more happy the further the needle climbs on the dial, I found 50mph to be almost the perfect pace for this stretch of the road. That said, the Trace is neither technically challenging, nor appreciably strenuous to man or machine. At this pace, wind noise abates enough that, behind the screen, you can actually HEAR what you?re passing. In Mississippi, the Trace winds in and out of the terrain gently and leisurely. I'm sure the crotch rocket ilk would whine about the pedestrian pace, but that comfy 2500rpm-in-fourth-gear allows you to notice what you're passing and prevents the panic-brake-what-did-I-just-miss reaction when you spot a tasty turnout. Sight lines are impeccable - there are no shoulders to speak of, but the grounds are cleared 50 feet on either side of the pavement. Such wide easements give you confidence in an out of turns, and provide you excellent opportunities to spot wildlife. Oh, and you'll spot PLENTY of wildlife. It seemed every other turn, I rounded a bend to face wild turkey, deer, geese, you name it. On one turn, I faced off with a young buck 'stalking' two young does. I pulled over and killed the engine to preserve the silence and was rewarded with a turf battle; the buck stomped the ground noisily, snorting and posturing until, overcome by instinct, he and his girls bolted for the safety of the trees. Catch you later, Bambi! Not ten miles later, I pulled over to "join" a family of deer (a mother and three fawns) as they grazed. Mother was skittish enough to dart for the trees, but the youngsters were bold enough to stick around for a few minutes, noses decoding the smells this oddly shaped creature put forth. With nothing more than nervous wiggles of rumps, they casually and slowly followed each other to the trees, making me wonder if they were afraid or simply bored.
Honestly, this may be the most perfect asphalt bed you've ever driven. No bumps, no potholes, no heaves, no surprises. My suspension may not have traveled more than 1/4" while on the Trace, the roads were THAT good. This perfection enables you to settle into a riding rhythm, gentling leaning to and fro as needed, steering the bike with nothing more dramatic than a bending your elbow at times. Meticulously swept of leaves (there weren't even piles on the sides of the road!), it borders on road Nirvana, and you'll be reminded how Nirvana-esque when you leave the Trace for gas, food, or for one of those little side roads where the Parks Department doesn't cover. The Trace represents the best of relaxed riding and I can truly say I've never ridden a road that combined the beauty and ease of this stretch.
Speaking of relaxed, the ST1100 gave nary a whimper, content to idle along in 4th, the familiar cam whine rising and falling gently in response to terrain and turns. Having filled in Jackson, glances to the fuel meter revealed I was using no fuel whatsoever (Note: a lie!) as the needle refused to separate from the ?F? for nearly 3 hours. The Battlaxes beneath me, eager to sprint, reported that I was loafing, and had I a Chief Engineer manning the engine room, he?d have said in his thickest brogue, ?Cap?n? I can give you MUCH more than that. Really!? I?d have ignored him, too. Comfortable in my foul weather gear, with the taptaptap of the rain?s steady cadence on my well-worn Arai, I drank it in, cracking the visor to smell as much as I saw of this road.
The Mississippi Trace - all nine hours of riding, stopping and such - was as relaxing as a favorite pair of jeans. The scenery was calming and soothing, much like the graceful bow of leaf-laden trees in the heavy evening air. Darkness began to fall along this segment of Mississippi Trace and the Garmin Nuvi pointed me faithfully to the nearest lodging (note: not within 15 miles of the Trace). The PIAAs began revealing all manner of observing eyeballs just off the road in the gloaming, an audience of creatures investigating who was transiting their territory, judging me in much the same way I was judging them. I spanned the Tennessee River over a bridge a full mile long precisely as fog closed in. For an eerie 20 seconds, as the light faded, I was swallowed by the gray velvet, the road disappearing for and aft, nothing visible to right or left. My headlights illuminating only more gray... creepy! ?Surviving? that, I subtly invaded the Volunteer State from the south and angled for my stop for the night. A hot shower and a meal later, I relaxed quietly in the anticipation of Alabama and Tennessee ahead of me....
...to be continued
A ride report I started submitting a few months back but never finished. Caveat: I write mostly for my own journals, so excuse the prose...
Enjoy!
It Begins.
As with anyone who has seen the same thing for too long, I was desperate to see something - anything - new. Escaping Texas, then, was less an exercise in ride mechanics and more an exercise in sanity retention. My trip prep was laced with the anticipation of new sights, smells and roads. Well, maybe not TOTALLY new, but at least far enough back in the memory banks as to be CONSIDERED new, and that?s all that matters at my age. As I added a new PowerLet bundle to the tankbag, checked tires and oil and bulbs, did all the clucking and preening one does before setting out, the still-widening grin was hard to miss. Even my wife, ever-sensitized to my pre-ride musings, said aloud: "Honey, you're smiling that smile."
Indeed I was.
Framing argument: I do appreciate the many good things about Texas. The food is good, the gas is pretty cheap and there are delicious quantities of roads, many of them wonderfully unpatrolled and uncaged. The people are delightful and the near absence of winter means riding season lasts for about 363 days. That said, the majority of the roads near me (read: Dallas/Fort Worth) are depressingly straight and, frankly, boring. The same kind of boring that spaghetti is to the pasta family. Spaghetti is palatable and a very fine meal, but from an entertainment value, it can't hold a candle to corkscrew or bowtie pasta. Yeah, yeah, some will protest, and I thoroughly acknowledge the presence of the Hill Country and Big Bend. Those two don't really do it for me: I'm not a big fan of dead and dry, and the Hill Country is, by comparison to my favored roads, depressingly flat and not far enough away to feel like a real trip. Like politics and religion, this discussion has proponents on both sides that are willing and able to beat their drums loudly and longly to little effect; we rarely cross the divide between us. So with a tip of the cap to the Austinians and Big Bendians, I reserve my most lascivious of riding grins for that which exists outside This Great State. That's why I go elsewhere for fave rides, and that's why I did the unthinkable and logged my escape from Texas on the Interstate. I'll confess I didn't leave Slab until just outside of Jackson, MS, giving my ST1100 easy rein, letting her set her own pace (thankfully quick!). And because this is my trip report, I'll mention nothing of that portion of the ride but to say this - "Gas was cheap," and "The exit to the Natchez Trace was clearly marked." I ate a small portion of spaghetti with the anticipation of better pastas yet to come. But the diva of this show WAS and IS the Natchez Trace, and I would be remiss if I let the spotlight stray terribly far from her.
Aside...
I won't delve into the history behind the Natchez Trace - each of you has access to the Web and Libraries and you can, at your leisure, consult those sources. I will say the Department of the Interior does a lovely job maintaining the Trace and this southern jewel deserves a spot on your ?Must Ride One Day? list. Imperative in your trip prep is to pick up the Trace Guide, a freebie flyer provided at various stops along the way, authored by the Government no less, which outlines to the tenth of a mile EVERY historical, cultural and natural landmark along the way. Oh, and there are obvious wooden mile markers every mile along the way, so with all due respect to the fine folks at Garmin, even garden-variety navigators can't get too lost. Dreamy!
I timed this ride just as a hurricane came ashore and slowly dumped it's guts over the southern United States. Many things in my life have occurred under less than optimal circumstances, and this was no exception. In a true "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all" moment, I traveled under the same cloud from Dallas to Somewhere in Central Tennessee, the rain wavering between sporadic to torrential EVERY moment of the trip. Rain, despite its wetness, is not all bad, though. Rain drives tourists and the similarly meek indoors. To wit, there were several spans while riding the Trace when I went 30 minutes or more without seeing another vehicle. Rain also mutes sounds to a dampened hush and deepens colors to lush saturations. Couple the beauty of the Trace with the solitude of traveling it unconcerned about traffic and you get a trip of truly memorable proportions.
Back to the ride...
Taking that clearly marked exit to the Trace from I-20 East places you on mile 87 of the Trace (The Trace itself begins in Natchez, MS, a town that was not on my ride route). Winding north of Jackson, MS, the Trace hugs the coast of Ross Barnett reservoir, giving you occasional glimpses of bogs and swampy areas that must've been enormous obstacles to the original Trace travelers, but are only objects of passing interest to modern day voyagers. Leaving the lake, you begin winding through rolling Mississippi hills and woods that will be your companions for the balance of the day. Late in October, after an unusually dry summer, the colors in Mississippi were almost absent. Various greens were only occasionally broken by a flare of yellow or orange; thankfully, the further north I ventured, the more regular the color became.
Turnouts and points of interest are almost too numerous to mention; truthfully, if you turnout at every opportunity, you might never make it to the northern end of it all. Must-sees include Busby Park, featuring a dramatic ascent several hundred feet to an overlook giving you wonderful views to the East and West. Common sides refer to the "Old Trace," vestiges of the original path settlers, Indians and trappers followed and which the Trace loosely follows. The Old Trace is nothing more than a path, really, tunneling into the woods here and there. At some point, to frame your ride in perspective of the times, you need to dismount and walk a few yards on a segment of the Old Trace. Invariably, you'll descend or turn, leaving all evidence of the modern world behind. For a moment, you'll be surrounded by trees, swallowed by them. You?ll hear only the hush of a breeze in the leaves and snap of twigs underfoot. The Trace consumes you, absorbs you into Itself, and transports you back in time. You'll find yourself imagining walking the Trace as they did years ago. Was the chill you just felt due to the uncertainty of the path ahead, or just the shudder of an autumn breeze? Is it really 2006 or the mid 1850s? So very few places remain in America like that.
The Trace itself may be the ideal ride for the casual vacationer. Much has been said and written about speed limit. While we as a group are probably more happy the further the needle climbs on the dial, I found 50mph to be almost the perfect pace for this stretch of the road. That said, the Trace is neither technically challenging, nor appreciably strenuous to man or machine. At this pace, wind noise abates enough that, behind the screen, you can actually HEAR what you?re passing. In Mississippi, the Trace winds in and out of the terrain gently and leisurely. I'm sure the crotch rocket ilk would whine about the pedestrian pace, but that comfy 2500rpm-in-fourth-gear allows you to notice what you're passing and prevents the panic-brake-what-did-I-just-miss reaction when you spot a tasty turnout. Sight lines are impeccable - there are no shoulders to speak of, but the grounds are cleared 50 feet on either side of the pavement. Such wide easements give you confidence in an out of turns, and provide you excellent opportunities to spot wildlife. Oh, and you'll spot PLENTY of wildlife. It seemed every other turn, I rounded a bend to face wild turkey, deer, geese, you name it. On one turn, I faced off with a young buck 'stalking' two young does. I pulled over and killed the engine to preserve the silence and was rewarded with a turf battle; the buck stomped the ground noisily, snorting and posturing until, overcome by instinct, he and his girls bolted for the safety of the trees. Catch you later, Bambi! Not ten miles later, I pulled over to "join" a family of deer (a mother and three fawns) as they grazed. Mother was skittish enough to dart for the trees, but the youngsters were bold enough to stick around for a few minutes, noses decoding the smells this oddly shaped creature put forth. With nothing more than nervous wiggles of rumps, they casually and slowly followed each other to the trees, making me wonder if they were afraid or simply bored.
Honestly, this may be the most perfect asphalt bed you've ever driven. No bumps, no potholes, no heaves, no surprises. My suspension may not have traveled more than 1/4" while on the Trace, the roads were THAT good. This perfection enables you to settle into a riding rhythm, gentling leaning to and fro as needed, steering the bike with nothing more dramatic than a bending your elbow at times. Meticulously swept of leaves (there weren't even piles on the sides of the road!), it borders on road Nirvana, and you'll be reminded how Nirvana-esque when you leave the Trace for gas, food, or for one of those little side roads where the Parks Department doesn't cover. The Trace represents the best of relaxed riding and I can truly say I've never ridden a road that combined the beauty and ease of this stretch.
Speaking of relaxed, the ST1100 gave nary a whimper, content to idle along in 4th, the familiar cam whine rising and falling gently in response to terrain and turns. Having filled in Jackson, glances to the fuel meter revealed I was using no fuel whatsoever (Note: a lie!) as the needle refused to separate from the ?F? for nearly 3 hours. The Battlaxes beneath me, eager to sprint, reported that I was loafing, and had I a Chief Engineer manning the engine room, he?d have said in his thickest brogue, ?Cap?n? I can give you MUCH more than that. Really!? I?d have ignored him, too. Comfortable in my foul weather gear, with the taptaptap of the rain?s steady cadence on my well-worn Arai, I drank it in, cracking the visor to smell as much as I saw of this road.
The Mississippi Trace - all nine hours of riding, stopping and such - was as relaxing as a favorite pair of jeans. The scenery was calming and soothing, much like the graceful bow of leaf-laden trees in the heavy evening air. Darkness began to fall along this segment of Mississippi Trace and the Garmin Nuvi pointed me faithfully to the nearest lodging (note: not within 15 miles of the Trace). The PIAAs began revealing all manner of observing eyeballs just off the road in the gloaming, an audience of creatures investigating who was transiting their territory, judging me in much the same way I was judging them. I spanned the Tennessee River over a bridge a full mile long precisely as fog closed in. For an eerie 20 seconds, as the light faded, I was swallowed by the gray velvet, the road disappearing for and aft, nothing visible to right or left. My headlights illuminating only more gray... creepy! ?Surviving? that, I subtly invaded the Volunteer State from the south and angled for my stop for the night. A hot shower and a meal later, I relaxed quietly in the anticipation of Alabama and Tennessee ahead of me....
...to be continued
