LEG 1 DAY 7
HIAWASSEE, GA TO TURKEY CREEK CHEROHALA SKYWAY NC
255 MILES TODAY - 1208 MILES TOTAL

After another round of $2 pancakes, I say goodbye to my new friends: Brad and Adriane, and head off from the rally. It feels great to back on the road, heading toward a destination and not riding in circles. I find that I don’t like so much riding for the sake of riding alone, I need more of a purpose, a challenge, a seemingly unattainable goal - to keep my interest (like riding in 49 states in 6 months). It was that way with bicycling; I guess it will be that way with motorcycling.

I retrace my route to the rally and rejoin the Blueridge Parkway at Balsam Gap, just a few miles west of the highest point on the parkway (Richland Balsam - 6047 ft). On the way I see three motorcyclists on loaded BMW’s, obviously riding home from the rally. I reflect back on the camaraderie and my time at the rally. There was some down time, which was frustrating due to the pace of this trip, but overall I had a great time.

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With the Great Smoky Mountains looming ahead of me in the west, this is surely some of the finest portions of the Blueridge Parkway. I have left the Blueridge Mountains and I am skirting the southern end of the Black Mountains. With about 20 miles left of the parkway, I stop in at the Waterrock Knob Visitor Center for the usual needs: bathroom, passport stamp, water, and info. Panoramic views here on the observation point into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

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Descending into a valley carved by the Ocanaluftee River, I join Route 441, thus ending my affair with the Blueridge Parkway. Upon entering the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I stop at the Oconaluftee Visitor Center and Mountain Farm Museum. Punctuating its phenomenal biodiversity is the park’s collection of vernacular and rustic architecture. The outdoor museum preserves the way of life of the pre-park (1920’s) mountain people who once lived here.

I tour around some of the more interesting buildings, on my way out I am entreated by a lady of a rather fitful temperament. She is probably in her early forties and very earthy, a would-be remnant of the sixties, but a little too young to be a hippy. She diverts her attention away from her artwork long enough to call me over. She is doing a watercolor of the apple house and is hoping to sell them to a gift shop owner that she is meeting with today. She asked if I would like to see a finished work in her car. Far from enthralled with her vignettes, my altruism holds and I agree to take a walk and view the other piece. As we walk she explains her nervousness is due to meeting such a “handsome gentleman,” a descriptor repeated frequently during our brief meeting. I return to my motorcycle saying to myself “if only I had that effect on the twentysomethings...”

I retrace a bit of my route and head for the reservation town of Cherokee for lunch and fuel. The park borders the Quala Boundary section of the Cherokee Indian Reservation. Somehow the Eastern Cherokees avoided The Trail of Tears and were able to remain in the area. Cherokee is a little tourist trap of hotels, gas stations, restaurants and gift shops.

As I am fueling, I am approached by a man named George, also a BMW rider, who expounds on the quality of motorcycling in the area. He insists that I join him at his gift shop across the street so that he can map out a proper route for me to follow. After fueling, I take him up on his offer and he maps out what looks to be a great route including Deal’s Gap (one of the most famous of all motorcycle roads), the park and the Cherohala Skyway. I thank him, exchange emails and grab lunch at a deli across the street. Could this be the gift shop owner who would be meeting the painter? – too weird.

Starting the route I head back into the park onto Newfound Gap Road . At Newfound Gap I make a left and head up to Clingman’s Dome the highest point in the park and the second highest point east of the Mississippi. This is more a graveyard than anything else. The trees here are under attack by a host of non-native pests.

Currently the most visible and serious threat is the balsam woolly adelgid. The small wax-covered insect attacks the Park's Fraser fir trees. The fir overreacts to the feeding adelgids, clogging its transport tissues. Trees die within five years of infection. Other pests and diseases affecting park ecosystems include chestnut blight, southern pine beetle, and dogwood anthracnose. The future promises additional problems. Gypsy moths, currently near the Virginia-Tennessee border threaten oak forests with total destruction. Recently, the hemlock woolly adelgid has been found in the park. This pest from Asia could eliminate Park hemlocks, and destroy the entire forest type.

Depressing, down from Clingman’s Dome and into Cades Cove a nice meadow but a very slow and frustrating pace behind some very loud Harleys, fat chicks in bikini tops hanging on and over the back of the hogs. Then the payoff, Parson Branch Road a gravel road through old growth forest with many water crossings. This ends at the infamous “Dragon” , Deal’s Gap 318 turns in 11 miles. I pull up looking at this famous road and see two idiots on crotch rockets passing a car on the double yellow line. I decide to make a left and just do a portion of the Dragon – these guys are scaring me.

PARSON BRANCH ROAD
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As I putt down the sinuous course, I see multiple impacts sights which must have been made by motorcycles. I stop at the famous Deal’s Gap motorcycle resort but decide to keep pushing on to the Cherohala Skyway. Two sane motorcyclists inform that I will enjoy the Skyway much more as we watch another crazed individual repeatedly do wheelies up the beginning of the Dragon.

I follow the Little Tennessee River along a nice piece of road, enjoying the scenery. It seems I am enjoying the scenery a little too much and I notice to my dismay that I am no longer on the road but in the grass doing about 60 mph. Times like these where the theory of relativity weighs on one’s mind - as time expands and within those few milliseconds images of hospitals, ambulances, crushed motorcycles and all of the beautiful places you are not going to see on your trip flash through your mind. You imagine your family at your bedside shaking their heads saying, “what was he thinking” as you lie in a full body cast tubes emanating from every orifice.

Miraculously, the bike plods through the soggy terrain slowing the machine evenly - probably like one of those runaway truck ramps. The bike comes to a stop, still upright, the engine still running. I kill the engine and lay my head on the gas tank, with the deepest sigh, remove my heart from my throat. After a few minutes of reflecting on the dire possibilities of that poor judgment, I am off sliding through the muck and back to the road. I still have not really decided the root cause of the motorcycle leaving the pavement but have a feeling as though someone has said “you have been warned.” After winding around the reservoir made by the Little Tennessee, I start climbing up to the Skyway into gathering dusk.

Sweeping vistas of bluish greens, like Shenandoah but bigger – much bigger. I am in national forest now so I know I can camp just about anywhere. I spot a gravel road and investigate, I notice an RV tucked into the woods and ask permission to camp. A friendly older man answers the door and he shows me a sight across from him that should be fine to camp. I set up camp and later, take him up on his invitation to join him for some tea.

Tab and Nancy used to ride a Goldwing themselves – put over 200,000 miles on it. Now they are into the RV thing, Tab is a short wave radio enthusiast and has the RV wired up for just about anything. He is retired Air Force and now works for Homeland Security utilizing the radios for communications in the event of another 9/11. I bum some cooking supplies to experiment with another boxed dinner and then turn in. Major upper level disturbances all through the night. Massive winds, but not at ground level – looks like the gods are conspiring to deal me some heavy shit tomorrow.

LEG 1 DAY 5&6
Georgia Mountain BMW Motorcycle Owners’ Association Rally
269 RALLY MILES

On the morning of the first day of the rally, I wander up to the pavilion. It is heartening to see other motorcyclists with actually more gear packed on their bikes than I have. Huge trailers towed by motorcycles that expand into tents complete with dressing rooms. Sidecars outfits and dogs carriers on motorcycles complete the scene. A few vendors are starting to set up. Other than that, still pretty quiet, since it is Friday and most rally attendees will show up tonight.

The charity pancake breakfast isn’t until tomorrow, so Brad and I ride into town for a late breakfast, after registering. We pick a small diner, nothing special, but I am amazed at the low cost. Brad has a route planned out that hits some of the best roads in the area, I guess that’s what you do at a rally, ride.

I am convinced that the roads in the Georgia mountain area are designed by motorcyclists. The crowns of the roads are such that they cradle the motorcycle. I let Brad set the pace, he is a much more experienced rider. Keeping up as best I can, I find that I am enjoying the challenge of comfortably pushing my limits. About halfway through the trip we hit some pretty heavy rain and I am completely unprepared. Leaving the campground I had thought we were just going to breakfast. We pull over to wait it out and I ask if we are close to the campground. I then find out that this little loop Brad planned is in excess of one hundred miles. Now, I am starting to understand rallies.

Through clearing skies, we eventually make our way back to the campground. It’s chili night at the rally. I walk into the pavilion and up to the kitchen counter, where I am handed a luke-warm bowl of chili in a styrofoam bowl. Brad and I are prepared though with a couple Killian's to wash this stuff down. The ceremonial bonfire is lit, at least two cords of petroleum soaked logs, and rallyers gather like moths. After about two hours of technical difficulty, a small band of amateur musicians begins to play easy listening classic rock. I opt not to offer my technical skills, early on I sense the mounting frustration of too many uneducated guesses to the problem. And after all, its that kind of shit that I am getting away from, play acoustic why don’t ya?

The only other activity tonight is a seminar on first aid for motorcyclists. Thinking that it would be valuable information for my trip, I attend. At this point in the evening I had consumed a few beers and I was in more of ‘party mode’ than first aid mode. After a few minutes of compound fractures and other gruesome talk I exit the pavilion. It made the band a little more listenable.

“Two dollar all you can eat pancakes” and worth it. Morning, day two of the rally. With quite a few late arrivals, the area that I am camping in filled up quite a bit through the night. Included in these newcomers is Adriane, Brad’s ex-girlfriend (but still a good friend it seems).
Time for the GS ride, about a dozen riders (including Brad and Adriane) gather outside of the pavilion. We learn that there are two options: an instructor lead tour for beginners and a self guided tour for the more advanced rider. I go for the much needed instruction and Brad and Adriane daringly head off on their own.

About seven of us are lead by the instructor to a National Forest road where we stop for the first lesson. Our instructor, Maury, is a short, stocky fellow and it is obviously not comfortable on his borrowed F650, a rather tall bike. While showing us the finer points of the power slide and skid, he drops the bike about three times. The class is struggling to hold back the laughter as some of the guys are trying to help him not fall over again.

We head down the forest road, the class is trying hard not to repeat the Maury’s moves. After quite a bit of gravel riding we come to the next demonstration - water crossing. Now this is getting fun. We each take turns and are critiqued on our river crossing technique - very exhilarating. We do a few more water crossings and then head to lunch at Two Wheels Only Campground. As the name implies a motorcycle only resort. It was good to see the place, but I think I prefer my National Parks - I’ve heard enough Harley’s growing up next to Daniel's Biker Bar in Elkridge.

Two Wheels Only

Returning to camp, I run into Adriane. She tells me about her rather exciting day. In between their dirt riding she unintentionally left the pavement and wiped out in the grass, pushing her limits with Brad as I had done the day before. She was a little banged up as was her bike, but in good spirits. Brad was on his way back home to fetch his trailer, since she did not feel comfortable riding the bike back home.

Steak dinner “cooked the way you like it” night at the rally. Meaning you are handed a raw piece of meat and shown to the massive charcoal grill set up in the parking area. Not too bad, a shade better than the chili and we have more Killian’s. Now its time for the door prize drawings and awards ceremony. A torturous affair, seemingly endless, as you wait under florescent lights as numbers are drawn. The smart bikers are outside smoking and drinking, a few of these wander in attempting to claim prizes with mistaken tickets.

After what seems like hours of awards and prize drawings, another few cords of wood are set ablaze and the crowd gathers again. I run into a guy I had met while doing my laundry, earlier this afternoon. I tell him of my travels and he says he is on a similar trip, except that his odyssey is taking place in a Chevy Astro van that he has been living out of for the past few years. He had a problem with the washer earlier and I told him to report to the campground office, which he refused, “Don’t want to go drawing too much attention” he said. After talking with him at the fire, I realized that he was squatting and ducking the modest $5 camping fee, what a loser. My new friend incessantly insists that we smoke a joint, which I turn down. He then makes a similar offer to Brad and Adriane, who are not interested either. Finally he stumbles off to join some other drunks willing to put up with him and we head back to camp hoping he doesn’t follow us.

Adriane, Brad and damaged F650

LEG 1 DAY 4
COLONY HOUSE MOTOR LODGE - ROANOKE, VA TO
BMW MOA GEORGIA MOUNTAIN RALLY - HIAWASSEE, GA

402 MILES TODAY - 1086 MILES TOTAL

Defeated perhaps? More like premature surrender - my giving in to the rain and not sticking it out for another campground. “Get your money’s worth out the hotel” I said as I frequently talk to myself anymore. Last night, I spread all the wet things around the hotel room to dry, inverting the boots on top of the heater unit. The only real wetness problem I am having is with the pants...

...For a reason that is unclear to me now, I failed to procure the Gore-tex liner for the pants before the trip. I patronized the Super-K last night searching for a low cost solution to the pants problem. I found some cheap hip waders for riding and a poncho for setting up camp after the ride in torrential conditions.

Free Continental Breakfast - morning at the motor lodge. The freshness of a spring morning after a hard rain, overcast but not at all gloomy. Nice not to have to cook or find a place for breakfast. I have my fill of pastry, coffee and cold cereal while pondering the origin of the term Continental Breakfast. To me this conjures up visions of beaches, passion fruit, honeydew, scantily clad females... not raisin bran and doughnuts.

Escaping the madness of the typical strip mall road, I am quickly back to the relative safety of the Parkway. Within a few miles - Zen like trance states; leaning, floating, soaring. Piper’s Gap, Rocky Knob, Daniel Boone’s Chase, mile after blissful mile flow on. I pass a long distance bicyclist heavily loaded down. A sense of guilt quickly passes, I used to be him. Now the challenge is of another sphere, mental.

As I am heating up a can of beans at a vista point, I hear a motorcycle approaching from the north. A fellow pulls up from Quebec on one of these motorcycles that you lean way to far forward on. “Headed for the rally, eh?” he asks in a Canadian accent. “Rally?” I eloquently reply. “Yes, the Georgia Mountain BMW rally in Hiawassee, Georgia.” “What do you do at a rally” I ask. “Its a good deal he says camping, meals, great mountain rides, oh yeah there is a GS class for off road riding, you may like that.”
So, that was the selling point me - I was headed for Hiawassee.

I return to my gourmet pursuits as my friend from Canada takes off. I marvel again at the fact that he had been on his bike since eight pm last night, at the same time I am thinking Georgia? - that’s rather far. The man from Quebec didn’t want to contemplate the distance. The right brain chimes in with “if he can do it. I can do it.”

Still overcast as I continue rolling along the parkway. The clouds are becoming increasingly darker. Into very heavy rain again, I pull over to weatherproof, a bitch of a task with no cover overhead. For a few hours there are alternating periods of rain and sun, making for warm and damp conditions within the rain gear. I come to the realization that hip waders are not proper motorcycle attire.

Chattahoochee National Forest

Unwillingly, I leave the parkway to follow a more direct route to Georgia. I am just above Asheville, NC roundabout rush hour. Pretty heavy traffic until I break free of the city. The sun is starting to weigh heavy in the sky. I stop for fuel, caffeine and a look at the map, about ninety miles to go. Passing through national forest areas very dense, lush and green. The Nantahala National Forest becomes the Chattahoochee as I cross only my fifth state border of the trip.

Darkness now, lightning strikes ahead in the south. Thunder is inaudible above the din of the wind noise. I ride through marshlands encircling Chatuge Lake - formed when the Chatuge Dam blocked the natural progression of the Hiawassee River. I must be close. I pull into Hiawassee about eleven pm. Stopping at a gas station to ask directions to the campground I spot a BMW F650, I assume that the owner is attending the gathering.

Brad is from South Carolina and attends rallies frequently. He offers to follow me to a restaurant so that I can follow him to the campground, if and when I find a very late dinner. I settle on the delectable offerings served up at Hardee’s. The storm is of sufficient intensity as to cause the lights to flicker. Cash registers go haywire and it becomes quite difficult for the lady taking my order to figure my total and change. The rest of the employees are cheering for the lights to go off indefinitely so that they can escape the rigors of fast food preparation. Voracious “aws” as the fluorescent tubes flitter back to life. I remember jobs like that.

Finally I take my combo #3 and plastic tray over to the plastic chair and table combination that Brad has chosen. A very spaced out kid (late teens or early twenties) is sitting with Brad, completely drenched and shivering. This is awkward since I am forced to sit next to this guy at the undersized table. Twirling an unlit cigarette around and around in his shrivelled fingers, he rambles off sentence after unintelligible sentence as Brad sits silently and I attend to my meal. Our new found friend gets up and stumbles around the entire restaurant a few times. I ask Brad if he knows the guy which for some reason I had assumed. Brad shakes his head, “Nope.”

Our friend returns with a his cigarette now lit as the lady who took my order appears at our table. “Friend of yours” she asks. Now we both shake our heads. She promptly kicks him out. And with the look of a worried mother, she says “Hate to send ‘im out in the rain, but I ain’t gonna have ‘im bottering the customers.” Very heavy rain continues to pour as we wait it out and discuss the rally. I am still not sure what goes on at said rally.

We arrive at the campsite, I start to set up camp, the rain is diminished to a few showers here and there. Brad sets up his Kermit Motorcycle Chair, cracks a beer and spectates - I wrestle with the Bibler vestibule. Motorcycles, mainly BMWs, slowly putt by on the campground road. I gladly accept a beer from Brad and resort to duct tape to fasten the loose grommet on the vestibule. Brad tells me about working with his brother in a sound contracting company, I reminisce on my career in Acoustics. After wrapping up the conversation, exhausted, I crawl into my tent and crash.