Day 9
I’m skipping days 7 and 8 in the sequential narrative. Not because nothing interesting happened, but because I’m sitting in a room in Becky’s log cabin on the highway near Selma North Carolina and it’s already a quarter to one and the thought about being 3 days behind in telling the story of this trip makes me feel sick almost. And then I think of how funny it is the pictures and story of our big adventure is becoming an obligation or a chore rather than a way to process the day and share my experiences.
Today we were trying to outrun a storm, we’ve been checking the weather maps for the last couple of days and looking at the sky in Chimney Rock NC, it did seem like a big thunderstorm is arriving. It became very hot, and sort of dry and humid at the same time, and clouded.
Outrunning the Storm
Sitting outside, on a lawn chair looking or a green river full of huge white rocks, we check the weather site again. It says the storm is due at 1:00 and that it would last till the late evening. We were thinking about staying in Chimney Rock for the day, but somehow it’s depressing roadside attraction feel seem more depressing and less charming in the morning light and we decide to leave (though I am sorry I never got to climb the mountain and see, for myself the famous penis shaped rock).
So we pack everything fast, and by 10:40 we are loading Olga only to have the hotel owner manager and cleaner (it’s owned by a couple who apparently, do all the work) come over and tell us the history of all of his 3 bikes and how he lost them all. It’s one of the first conversations we had with people in the past few days and it’s strange, also, though it’s very interesting in a boring sort of a way – we really do want to get a head of the storm.
Favorite bike advice: What I learned from this bike is, never lend your bike to anyone.
So eventually we head out, we pick the fastest root, but for about an hour we go on very small beautiful roads, that somehow, for their unexpectedness, seem more beautiful than anywhere we have been so far, it’s not a state park or a parkway or some touristic made-to-look-rustic area, but actually a rural place with small farms, portable homes, people and a lot of lush green trees and grass. The abandoned houses seemed to get filled in life once the people move out, ivy and vines cover them, the vinyl paneling and planks and stones turn back to wood and rock once the smooth outer veneer of paint and smoothness dulls away, the windows becomes just another hole for trees to grow out of.
We see a long line of bikers all waving at us, out for their weekend ride.
Eventually, stopping for gas and a chat about miles per hour with an old guy in an old truck, we turn abruptly into an open scenery of McDonalds, Applebees and CVSs – the freeway.
The acute difference between the Rural and the populated, the intimate and super public, this inner peace vs. the pornographic display of commodity makes me think about the difference I noticed so far between the rural and the freeway.
The more rural an area is, the larger the houses are for a while, then as you moved farther into those areas, they seem to shrink again, becoming those long prefabricated houses that can be moved on a truck, or mobile homes.
The more rural an area is, the earlier the restaurants and store would close, and sometime the earlier they would open. The more chain stores you’ll see, at first, then less and less. The first thing that looses its brand identity would be an occasional diner, the last, the gas stations.
People would own more cars, but the cars would be older and some would probably not be working at all.
The dogs get bigger, the horses get smaller.
The more rural an area is, the larger the coffee cups, also the weaker the coffee is. The longer and more elaborate would the signs telling employees to wash their hands would be.
The more rural an area is, the more “for sale” signs you’ll see.
The people would smile more, but look much sadder.
The ride his hard, the wind is blowing really hard and the Ned ride fast, to get ahead as much as possible before the rain start hitting. It’s not cold, it’s hot, and something in the combination of the heat, the dry wind, the motor sound and the monotonous site of the freeway is making everything feels like sleep or a long long dream. I try to remember the names of places we pass so I can add them to the map later, I count in my head “Laurel mountain, gateway mountain, Old Forth, Marion, Morgeton…Laurel mountain, gateway mountain, old forth….” Like a strange road mantra. It’s hard to decide what to remember, whether I should notice the buzzards or the people sitting in their cars, waving at us, or the names of places.
What’s important, if anything, in that moment. After riding like that for a while, time seems to just disappear, or become almost meaningless.
Eventually we stop.
We are near a restaurant called Troy’s 50’s Diner, it’s filled with young Brando and James dean posters, and dusty old memorabilia, Grease Barbie dolls, models of cars, an old cigarette machine and a gum ball machine that looks like a gas pumps. It’s sort of cool but not really. The heavy waitress in a pink dress that looks about 16 tells the skinny one, with knee cropped jeans and flat brown hair “It’s a week to the day that I found out I was pregnant and I hadn’t had a cigarette since. They told me it would make the baby sick”.
After we eat a couple, both blond, sunburned and wearing Harley Tshirt, she trying to look younger then she is, and he, in a “I heart Jesus” baseball cup and crude tattoos. They sit next to us and we talk about trips and bikes and places they have been to. Everytime she start talking she say “I just hope you enjoy your trip” She tells us that that North Carolina furniture industry is falling down, that just last week a big factory closed down and sixteen hundred people were laid off, he say that he has to drove 50 miles for work now and he’s still making less money than he did 10 years ago. “I just hope you enjoy your trip” she says.
We check the weather again. It says that in that area it’s only supposed to rain at 4:00, so we are about 2:30 hours ahead of the storm.
On the highway, it all seems the same, though the color of the trees is different off the mountains and the flowers are in more colors, it all sinks down under a similar layer of Cracker Barrels and Wendy’s. Suddenly the air change, we are still about 6 hours away from the shore line but it smells like the sea. I turn aside and see a dead deer on the side of the road, its neck broken and buzzards are flying above. Then a huge lake, I can’t even see it’s end, with many boats and an Island in the middle, the combination of both those things is so strange I’m not even sure if it’s all real or if I dreamed it.
Biker bar
We stop at the Locked & Loaded biker grill for dinner and a storm check up. It’s full of bikers all sitting there in printed t-shirts, leather jackets and chaps, most are older than us. We eat and check the computer. They are all drinking beers and we are having a coffee and a cup of hot water, we can’t drink beer because, we are the only people there riding the bike farther than the nearest biker bar… Something had been bothering me about this biker culture ever since the Motorcycle resort a couple of nights back, and now, sitting there I figure out what it is – Those people are very into motorcycles, but not into riding at all, it’s some odd social structure of uniforms and music and drinking that I don’t like that has nothing to do with riding, we don’t have time to tell motorcycle stories, cause we are actually riding.
The weather site says the storm’s not going to hit till 10:00 we beat the storm. We call and make reservation at a hotel 30 minutes away, and ride slowly till we get there.
