Scraping the Skies on Rocks and Bricks

Originally published on fotocycle.net, 2006

I don't think about death all that often. It makes its grisly appearance in my mind mostly when I am pushing it too hard on my motorcycle, but it doesn't surprise nor disturb me when I do think of it. So when I slid over the wet lanes onto the wrong side of the double yellow, I didn't think so much about the truck that was now coming at me, but about the new turn I would have to make to avoid it.

I'm not used to twisting roads, being a Florida native, so sometimes I have to find the limits the hard way. Scratching along Highway 25, in Alabama, I was just starting to regain my confidence in the curves - the first really good road of the trip - when the gray clouds overhead started spitting. But I got past the truck, and we made it safely to Leeds for our first destination for the day, Barber's Vintage Motorsports Museum.

I had planned this trip a few weeks back, initially to be only a week-long outing to New York City from my home in Miami. Thinking of the boring 'slab ride ahead, I opted for the long way 'round instead and decided I'd revisit the mountain roads I'd done a year before, including the infamous Deal's Gap. My friend Alex decided to come along as well, making it his first road trip by bike.

The first day was a belter, meeting at a rest area along the Florida turnpike in Palm Beach County at 8:30 AM, and ending in Troy, Alabama well into the evening. It was the only way we would be in the area of NYC by the planned fifth day. I'd done the trip to Alabama in a day a couple of times already, and Alex was a trooper about it the whole way.

After leaving Barber's, we headed to Georgia to stay in Dahlonega for the night. Getting on 411, we passed Rome and jumped onto 53. Finding a room was something of a challenge on the lonely highway, fog shrouding many of the curves until we were almost right on them. When we finally found a hotel, it had no rooms available, and on the way out, Alex dropped his Aprilia from a standing stop. Driveways along mountain roads can be a little tricky to non-natives like ourselves, especially in the dark, and he misplaced his foot when stopping the bike. The damage included the inevitable scratches, a bent clip-on, and the end of the brake lever had been busted off.

Alex took it better than I would have, and we moved on to the next hotel, where we found some comfortable beds to lay in for the night.


The third day found us in Deal's Gap, after a jaunt on 60. A morning drizzle covered us most of the way through North Carolina, and 20 miles from Robbinsville, we found ourselves wondering if we should push on to the Gap in the rain. But the skies cleared just before we made the turn from 19/129 into Robbinsville. The corkscrew turns of the Dragon have stayed with me since my first ride there in '05, but I welcomed them with some apprehension, probably due to the near-miss in Alabama the day before. I made my first round successfully, agreeing to meet at the overlook with Alex so we could both ride at our own pace.

When Alex, who had started ahead of me, wasn't at the meeting spot I started to worry. A while passed before he showed up, coming in from the north on 129, just as I was getting ready to get back on the bike and start looking for him and his bike in the ditch. He had passed the overlook on his way up. We talked about our experiences on the Dragon for a few minutes, then headed south and hit 28 towards Bryson City.

A quick breakfast at a Bojangle's fueled the ride into Cherokee the next morning, looping through the Smokies on the Blue Ridge Parkway one time too many due to a navigational error on my part - but neither of us were complaining. A lot has been said about the Parkway, but it really is a road that is hard to leave. The sweeping lines have a peaceful rhythm that is pleasantly interrupted by dreamlike scenes of the surrounding mountain range. But after about 100 miles, we realized we were not making very good time and headed for Linville, to take 221 south into I-40, and stopped in Mocksville. In the morning, 40 would lead us east onto I-85, all the way to Petersburg, Virginia, and then I-95 for the final leg north.


The slow traffic out of North Carolina was in stark contrast to the lonesome, winding roads we had gotten used to in the mountains, and it seemed to get to Alex's Aprilia in a bad way. We pulled over on the shoulder of the highway to let it cool down after the engine had started missing. A friendly Virginia cop kept us company for a while, talking bikes. After he left, Alex was ready to give the Mille another try. It would run well for a while but would start missing once the heat got to it again, and we would have to pull off the road for a moment; this was to be a recurring problem throughout the trip.

We visited an Aprilia shop off Interstate 64, not too far from Richmond, but they weren't able to help us out much beyond referring Alex to another shop in Cockeysville - in Maryland. We made our way into that state later that night, and stopped in Cockeysville after a quick ride on I-83.

The shop in Maryland worked on Alex's bike for the better part of the next day, so we walked around the town and gorged on breakfast at IHOP, shakes and smoothies at a strip mall ice cream parlor, and lunch at a Pizza Hut. We quickly discovered that there wasn't much to do in Cockeysville, beyond browsing through the local Target and, well, eating.

After Alex picked up the Aprilia, he complained that it actually felt worse than before. It seemed to be having a problem with the fuel mapping, and the mechanic had not been able to hook up the bike to the diagnostics hardware at the shop due to a faulty wire in his machine. Now, Alex said, the bike was also missing at idle and felt like it wanted to shut off. We couldn't do much but press on to New Jersey, stopping in East Brunswick, where the lack of left turns in the city had us stumped on how to get to our motel. An attendant at a gas station helped me figure out how to navigate through the city's quirky road rules.

Morning had us paying toll after toll on the Jersey turnpike, then choking on fumes through the Lincoln Tunnel, and finally into New York City. The heavy traffic and heavier heat had Alex's bike acting up again, and we had to park on the sidewalk almost as soon as we exited the tunnel to tear down the Mille's bodywork. A thorough search found no loose wires or blown fuses, so we had to assume the problem lay in the bike's fuel injection programming.

There was one more Aprilia dealer to visit before we could give up on getting the bike fixed, so we headed deeper into the city to find it. Once again, they could not help us out that day so we left the bikes parked out front, and walked into the city. At least we had gotten ourselves a killer parking space in New York City out of the deal.

Lunch was at Lombardi's, on Spring Street. I'm one of those folks that could live on pizza alone, so I was happy that we were ordering a pie to chow on while we decided on our next move. We had thought of visiting the World Trade Center memorial site, but after setting out again we got turned around and ended up heading towards 34th Street, and the majestic Empire State Building.

The lines to get to the 86th floor observatory were long, but moved fast enough. When we got there, we stayed awhile to absorb the beauty and intricacy of the cityscape below. This city is a land of dreams and fantasies, a hodgepodge of city dwellers and tourists and opportunists. If the walls of the skyscrapers could talk, their stories would surely fascinate one for hours and hours. I don't know that I could ever be bored of this place; it has haunted my daydreams for several years, since I first visited it in my early twenties.



Alex and I stayed longer than planned to avoid the evening traffic, holing up at La Bella, on 32nd and 2nd Avenue, into the night. We were both concerned about finding the easiest route out of the city and back to our room in Jersey, to avoid letting the Aprilia overheat and start having fueling issues again. For the first time on the trip, the mood was a little dark, but we needn't have worried; the flight back to our temporary home was fast and efficient. We had some trouble finding the Lincoln Tunnel again, but a guy in an Audi let us follow him to it. He took off pretty hard, either to impress us or elude us, but he failed on both counts as we blasted past him in the tunnel, waving our thanks.

We had decided to cut our stay in the Jersey/New York area by a day, and stroll down back to South Florida in three days instead of two. We were back on I-95 the next morning, stopping in Wilson, NC, that night.

The following evening, we were back in Florida, but stayed in St. Augustine to finish the journey the next day. As expected, the ride on the superslab was long and tedious. My MP3 player's battery had long since died - out of tunes, I had only my own head to escape to while riding. I was already planning my next big ride - Mexico? Canada? The Rio Grande in Texas? - before I had finished with this one.



That's the thing about us wandering types: Even when our joints are sore from burning up hundreds of miles a day, and the inevitable monkeybutt has become a way of life, we just can't wait to get back on the bike and do it all over again.

I've done fourteen states, plus all of Florida, on two wheels. Thirty-five more to go. And Alex, well, he's just getting started.

High Aspirations

Originally published on fotocycle.net, 2006.

I had gotten to know the comfort limitations of my CBR by the time I had rolled into southern Alabama. Getting out of Florida always feels like a marathon ride from my home in Miami, and beyond the numb hands and sore back, I had picked up my first souvenir from the trip, a pricey speeding ticket. My gift to you, Madison County.

I made it to the state line before sundown, but wanted to get to Montgomery before packing it in for the night. That way I'd only have a short jaunt in the morning to reach the first destination points on my itinerary: Barber's Vintage Motorsports Museum in Birmingham, and my very first encounter with mountain roads. My first set of twisties, really.

I finally reached Montgomery well over an hour later, after pushing on past miles of intermittent fog and cold rain. Hilly country up there, more ba-da-dump than whoop- tee-do, but fun. I jumped at one of the first hotels I found, the Scottish Inn along US 231 in Pike Road. It turned out to be a good choice, with an understanding attendant that suggested I park my bike right outside my door. "Not that we have any problems here," he clarified, "but just in case."

Dinner was comprised of Slim Jims and some leftover Gatorade I found in my topcase. At that hour, it would have been hard to find a place to eat. After some serious rest, I checked out the next morning and headed for Interstate 65, which would lead to SR 25.

Some locals had recommended the highway as the "best road for bikers in Alabama." And that inevitably meant some technical turns and tight switchbacks would be involved. Wonderful! It was too bad I had to ride hundreds of miles to find some good curves to wean myself on, but here they were. I must admit that I wasn't ready. I had told myself, and friends, that I would take it easy on the first pass, then go another round much more aggressively. This way I would get to know the land I was to try to conquer.


But I didn't heed my own words, and the curves humbled me repeatedly as I took turns a little too hot and kept finding myself riding above my skill level. I eventually remembered the old adage, "With smooth comes fast," so I slowed down after a few miles. Good thing, as upon encountering my first-ever switchback round a blind corner, I ran so wide I landed in a driveway someone was kind enough to put there. I got off the bike and paused for a few minutes to take a breath and some pictures.

I made it to Barber's in one piece. A band of heavy rain kept me in there longer than I had planned, but really I could have stayed in that place for many more hours. Every bike of nearly every vintage of nearly every style was on display. I wanted to ride every motorcycle in there, especially the infamous Britten V1000 race bike. An excellent view of the raceway below only fueled the daydreams further as the raindrops pelted the huge windows.




A jump on I-20 later took me into the Atlanta loop, on my way to Suches. I'd been trying to avoid the rush hour, but instead ran right into it. I decided to get off and get some chow while sitting out the traffic. I found Moe's Southwest Grill in a shopping center on Roswell Road. Moe's made the food at the Taco Bells in Miami taste like government handouts. I hoped the franchise had plans to open in South Florida.

The road to Suches was paved with rain and traffic, until well north on US 19. After 19 turned into 60, I started riding through some of the most impressive scenery I've ever been lucky enough to see. The tall walls of rock that hugged the road were ominous structures no man could ever duplicate. After years of cruising through the flat swamplands of the Everglades, my mind was having a happy time trying to find words to describe what I was now seeing.

I had called in a reservation at Two Wheels Only, the biker resort in Suches. I was a little apprehensive about the people with whom I'd be sharing the night's living quarters, but I needn't have worried. My stay there was quiet and comfortable - all I ever ask for in a rented room - but it was the company that made it memorable. I swapped road stories with riders from as close to home as Winter Haven and Orlando, and a Tennessee dad traveling with his two sons on a trio of scooters.
After a full breakfast, we all bid our farewells and went off to answer the different roads calling our names. I had decided I hadn't had a proper mountain experience until I had looked out from the top of one, so I headed for Georgia's tallest, Brasstown Bald (4,784 feet).

A short stint along the fabulous Wolf Pen Gap Road got me to the mountain, where I rode up for three miles to reach the visitor parking lot. Almost as soon as I dismounted, I felt the effects of the high altitude. This flatland city boy thought he was a hiking badass, but the walk up the mountain's half-mile paved trail taught me some respect for such heights.


I found the rhythm of the Gap soon enough, though some of the sections almost got me. I kept expecting gravity to laugh and say, "Screw you, you don't belong on this bike, not here, not today," and dump me through a turn. But it never happened. I stopped at the popular overlook at the northern end of the Gap, got off the bike and pulled out the souvenir "I rode the freakin' Dragon" decal I had bought at Wheeler's Performance, a repair shop just south of the Gap. I had waited till now to stick it on the lid of my topcase; I didn't want it on there until after I had earned the right.

I pressed on till I hit US 411, down to Vonore, and headed south on CR 360 to the Tellico Plains. Curves almost all the way. It was hard to believe I was riding all those intimidating squiggly lines on my various maps - and I was enjoying the hell out of it. The roads made me feel like I was on a fantastic rollercoaster ride, but with me at the helm. By now, the locals were no longer keeping up, but I was still within my limits - my newfound limits, that is.

I refueled in Tellico and took CR 165 westbound to TN-68, which headed south to CR 294, and finally back on US 19 and into Georgia. After this, only the return to Miami remained, ending my sojourn into the mountains. I took a leisurely two days to return home, completing my 2200-mile ride. I reflected on the past few days while eating up hundreds of interstate miles. I know I could have tried taking every road much harder, but like one guy at the scenic overlook on the Dragon said to me, "That's how you'll live to enjoy it again."

It's A Long, Long Way From Miami to Daytona

Originally published on fotocycle.net, 2004.

I figured out a while back that Miami's just not for me. I'm not into rap, "fades," phony attitudes, and lowered econoboxes with flashy stickers all over. I realized I needed to find another city to live in, and so far I haven't found it in Florida. Biketoberfest was coming up in late October, and I thought I could check out Georgia while I was already up by Daytona Beach.

But I'd already been to Georgia, so I thought of Alabama. Then, Mississippi came up. I kept thinking and eventually decided it wouldn't be too hard to keep going just a little more and check out New Orleans while I was at it. And Houston too.

My bike was ready to go. It had been my trusty commuter for just under twelve full months of riding, or about 14,000 miles. It's my learner bike, purchased after failing a riding course but with an obsessive determination to ride well. By now, I considered myself an accomplished rider who should have no trouble on a long trip like this. Never mind that I had just learned how to ride a bicycle in late summer of '03 - that was thousands of miles ago.

Day 1

I start out at 1 p.m. for my first stop, an overnight stay at a friend's place in Gainesville. I end up taking the ol' scenic route, i.e., I missed my turnoff for the turnpike, adding about 80 miles to the ride and four traffic jams. It takes almost seven hours to ride 400 miles, including one meal stop and two fuel stops. Heavy winds wake me up a few times, till I get further inland. The gusts were so bad through one sweeper that I took the whole curve almost upright at 70 miles an hour. My average of 90 mph helped drop about five miles from every gallon, bringing it down to 35.

A decent night's sleep should get me ready for Louisiana tomorrow evening.

Day 2

Over 600 miles today. Too many fuel stops. Riding into 'Bama I let out a good "Yeeee-haw!" I love arriving at a new state. It always makes me feel like I'm the first man on the moon or Columbus stumbling onto the Americas. Alabama came and went, though, and I cross the state in what seems like minutes. I was going to stop for lunch in Mobile, but dark clouds overhead push me on. Mississippi is a beautiful place. The marshlands remind me of the Everglades and of Florida in general, but healthier and prettier.

Out in the passing lane on the I-10, no one moves out of the way for the big rigs or the SUVs, but I show up in their mirrors and they clear out almost instantly. Does a sportbike in the rear make them jittery, or do they just not want to stand in the way of my irreverent two-wheeled freedom machine?

By the time I arrive in Baton Rouge I can hear a revolving kind of sound emanating from my back wheel. A quick inspection shows that nothing's loose and no parts are rubbing, so I press on and decide I'll give it a good check in the morning. It's been a long day. As I lay in bed, I feel alone and displaced. Did I really need to come out all the way over here? Will I find what I am looking for out by the bayous and swamps? And now the bike is not at a hundred percent - I don't know how much exploring I will be able to do if I can't figure out what's wrong with it.

Day 3

My noisy wheel woes are gone. I figured I'd check my brake pads, and sure enough, they were down to mere millimeters. I should've replaced them before I left, truth be told, but I hadn't been too worried. I hit three shops before I found a new set at Lightspeed Motorsports, a Kawi dealer in Gonzalez. They did a quick job of the install and I am back on the streets in no time. After lunch, I'm off to St. Francisville and Simmesport, home of the old plantation houses along the river.

5:27 PM - Nature really took some of the joy out of this ride. Like an exciting lover, the wind can be soothing and sensual to the biker one moment, intense and unpredictable the next. Gusts of 24 mph, out in the open fields, constantly threatened to knock out the wheels from underneath me. The broken pavement found throughout Louisiana sure didn't help.

11:07 PM - After the ride, I hang out with Tyler, a fellow I know over the Internet, and have the best chicken strips ever at a little Louisiana gem, Raisin' Canes. I get to know this state and its people better through our conversation. I'm having good feelings about the trip again.

Tomorrow: Houston! It's over 200 miles from here. Can I do it in three hours?

Everyone tells me it takes a full day, but I don't see why.

Day 4

Houston.

Almost as soon as I arrive in Texas, I want to leave again. "Drive friendly - the Texas way." Friendly? After well over 1200 miles of riding, this is where I encounter my first road-rager. The incident didn't go beyond some mad hand gestures on his part, but it still annoys me. I have to put up with this crap all day long in Florida.

Beaumont looks just like downtown Miami - run down and ugly, with an out-of-place "culture district" (museums and such) in a port city. And no fast-food joints in sight. Roads are worse than back in eastern Louisiana - I almost have a spill on a curve when my rear wheel bounces off one of the football-sized clumps of tar that riddle the asphalt.

I'm already missing Louisiana. Extreme eastern Texas is off my list of potential living spaces, but you can't judge a country, er, state, as big as Texas by such a small portion of it. I'll go back, to explore Houston in better detail and check out Austin and Dallas, but for now I'm thinking only of Baton Rouge.

Day 5

My daily routine for this trip: cleaning out all the bugs off of my gear. It's thoroughly disgusting. I'm not a squeamish guy at all, but thoughts of lunch quickly evaporate after I begin the day's cleanup. Tiny wings and legs everywhere, like in a more realistic version of Starship Troopers. One specimen is almost intact, save for its squished head that got smeared onto my helmet visor. Yuck. I make a mental note to apply a fresh coat of wax on my helmet before my next road trip, to help with the cleaning process.

Evening - New Orleans! After a couple of wrong turns and somehow missing my exit for the interstate (is this a new habit?), I end up in my second target city. I stroll in right around rush hour but don't care. The slow traffic lets me take in the place easier. I am finally in one of the few major U.S. cities on my life list. Right away, rolling down Poydras, I know I'm in love. The only other city I've ever been infatuated with was New York.

Although it's Thursday, and not a whole lot going on, there's a good crowd out on the streets leading to the French Quarter. I park in the garage for the Hilton on Poydras, a tip Tyler had given me, and I head off to the Riverwalk marketplace. I eventually hit the French Quarter, and stop in at the infamous House of Voodoo on Decatur to pick up the few souvenirs for which I'll have space. I stop for a Coke at Coyote Ugly - yeah, I know, but I'm not a drinker and it's the only drink on tap with no alcohol in it. I watch some pretty girls dancing on the bar for the few patrons, picturing the bumping party this place must be every weekend night.

I'd been wondering where all the hot girls were in Louisiana, but I figure out where they've been hiding when I hit N'awlins. Now all the elements needed for a good new host state have come together: big city, beautiful countryside, friendly locals, and pretty girls. Louisiana has now moved to the top of the list for potential places to live.

Day 6

Back to Florida today. I quietly bid farewell to Louisiana as I get on the interstate.

The ride to Gainesville is hellacious; it takes twelve hours and the temperature just keeps on dropping the darker it becomes and the closer I get to the panhandle. I'm not ready for the change in weather, but thankfully, I had remembered to pack the zip-in liner for my Joe Rocket jacket and put it on.

One of the bigger delays was at the western tip of Florida, heading into Pensacola. Hurricane Ivan hit this area hard in September, devastating eastbound I-10 over the Gulf and turning the west bridge into a single two-way road.

Traffic on the bridge was slow on my way out a few days ago, but coming back into the state the cars and big rigs are at a near standstill. I make it almost all the way to the end of the congestion, though not without at least two jerks trying to block my progress, and one dude in a battered van angrily yelling at me for having made it ahead of everyone. I make no apologies. I would have roasted away in my leather jacket had I stayed back there, waiting out the traffic in the hot sun. Filtering needs to be legal in more states than California.

I finally make it to G-Ville at around 10:30 PM. No hotel has a vacancy so I get back on I-75 and head south to the next city, Micanopy. I find a rat trap for $35 a night. I'm happy. According to a series of enticing billboards on the highway, there's even a strip bar just down the road. Could life get any better, really?

After the bar proves to be something of a disappointment, I set out to explore my new surroundings. It's cold and a light fog has settled over the dark, dark streets. After bumping into the few locals on the road, it doesn't take long for me to figure out Micanopy is more Twin Peaks and less the rural America I've been riding through these past few days.

Back in my room, I tuck in for the night. After rigging the barely functioning toilet to work, I get into bed to let the television lull me to sleep. Every channel has a green tint over the screen, but a flick with Rebecca Romjin - in alien green and all - insures sweet dreams after a long day on the road.

Day 7

Daytona!

I wake up late, still living in central time. I set out for Daytona Beach to meet up with some friends from New York and Alabama. We do lunch at a Chinese buffet, and then hit the beach for Biketoberfest. This is my first time in Daytona, and my first big bike gathering. I check out the infamous Main Street scene, the bars, the bikes, and the women. (Oh, the women!) I even manage to sprain my

left wrist by falling off the mechanical bull at the Hog Pen.

The hundred-mile ride back to Micanopy is cold. That vicious cold that makes you think twice about riding fast. I have two shirts on, one with long sleeves, but have to stop after only a few miles to get my rain jacket from under the seat. I'm still freezing, but I can stand it now. Just. As I get closer to the little town, my hands have lost all feeling. I stop on the shoulder of the interstate to walk a little and warm up. I leave the bike on and put my gloved hands on the hot exhaust can. They're so chilled that it takes no less than half a minute before I can start feeling the warmth from the muffler.

I get back to my room shortly after and get my stuff ready for the ride back home in the morning.

Day 8

After checking out, I make a brief detour to Ocala to visit an old friend. Once back on the road, it takes me six hours to get to Miami - a distance of just over 300 miles. As I approach my hometown, I hit mile after mile of heavy traffic, crashes and rubberneckers, not to mention the usual poorly thought-out construction zones. This is all too familiar, and I want to turn back around and go… anywhere else. I'm finally home at around 8:30.

It's now Sunday, eight days and 3,216 miles since I set out on this roundabout ride to Daytona Beach. I feel different. More focused, more in control. This trip wasn't just a refreshing vacation, but also something deeper. Life is clear again, and more meaningful than I remembered it to be when I left. I found a new outlet through touring, and now feel like I have much fewer limitations.

I Won't Be Around Long Enough

I won't live long enough to ever see as much of the world as I would like. I've always been too curious about what's around the next bend. I figure I need to live for an impossibly long time, or really get moving and get on as many planes as my money will allow - or that other people will pay me to get on.

Thinking about it, I don't think I have any vampires for neighbors I could beg a bite from, and I ride a motorcycle every day. In South Florida.

I better hurry up and see what I can see.

I'm currently working on a story about my winter trip to New Mexico, but I'll start you guys off with some of my earlier pieces on my many road trips.