Deals Gap in Winter, February 5-6 1999
Feb. 6th, 1999 07:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elizillaThe company I work for is moving. On Thursday, we packed up all the computers, and boxed up the stuff from our desks, and on Friday movers were to take it across town to the new building. They gave everyone except the MIS department the day off on Friday. Thursday afternoon, I started thinking about what I might want to do with my three-day weekend. I decided to do some motorcycle riding. Unfortunately, it's pretty cold in the Detroit area in February, even when it's unseasonably warm. So I decided to ride south to warmer weather, maybe as far as Lexington, Kentucky, and do a little exploring. I decided to take enough clothes for both Saturday and Sunday, and I decided to bring the sleeping bag and the small tent. The sleeping bag makes an excellent backrest, so even if I never used it, it wouldn't be a bad thing to have, and if I needed it, I'd be glad I'd brought it.
Friday morning I took my time getting the bike loaded. I rolled out of the driveway around 10:30am. I stopped at the gas station on the corner and filled the tank, and made a note of the mileage., 63669.1. I rode south on US-23. The air rushing through my helmet was so cold it made my eyes water, even with the forehead vent duct taped shut. I just kept reminding myself that this was as cold as it was going to be, that it would get better as I got farther south. I had two chemical warmers in each mitten, I had chemical boot warmers, and I had a large chemical warmer taped to each leg. I had my electric jacket over a silk turtleneck, exactly as Gerbing advised. I was plenty warm enough, except for my eyes. Cold eyeballs and temples are really awful.
I stopped for gas and lunch in Wapakoneta, Ohio. I sat for a good forty five minutes, eating slowly and reading my book. At the gas station, I noticed a truck pulling a trailer made out of the bed of an old truck. Then it was back on the road south. After lunch it was warmer; my eyes no longer bothered me.
By the time I got to the outskirts of Dayton, I felt quite comfortable. Then I ran into a traffic jam. Sigh. I was stuck for about ten minutes. My jacket was way too hot, but I couldn't get to the thermostat with my mittens on, and the traffic was moving just enough to keep me from getting them off. Worst of all, the warmers in my mittens were so warm they were burning the fingers on my left hand, and I was having to use the clutch continuously, so I couldn't adjust their position.
Finally I managed to break free and scoot down an off-ramp. Where I was, I did not know. I thought I might follow the cars that were leaving at the same off ramp, it was likely that some were local and would know how to get out of there. But the direction most of them were trying to go, to the right, was stopped just as dead as the traffic on the freeway. So I turned left and went under the bridge. There was water there on my right, curving around back the way I had come. So I followed, looking for a bridge. Eventually I came to the bridge, turned right and right again, and followed the water back toward the freeway. I came to the Carillon Park, and there was another road to the right, which I turned on. Soon I was going under the freeway again, and I could see the traffic jam was continuing. So I stayed on the surface street. I picked my way along, turning here, turning there, looking for a good southbound road but not finding one, trying to keep track of where I was in relation to I-75. I went around three sides of a huge landfill, and finally I ended up on a pretty road that ran along next to a levee, the road signs called it Day-Cinti Pike or something like that. I figured it must be the old state highway between Dayton and Cincinnati, so I stayed on it.
I came to a town of some sort, and there was a lot of traffic. So I pulled in to a restaurant parking lot to look at my maps. I was trying to figure out just where I was, when a guy in a phone company van pulled up and asked if I was lost. I said I was, and he gave me directions back to I-75. He also told me he was a biker, that he had a Harley, etc. He recommended US 68 as a route towards Lexington. I wanted to get south more quickly, so I filed this advice for future trips, and got back on I-75 south. Just after getting on the freeway, I passed the same truck with truck-bed trailer I'd seen in Wapakoneta, so I figured my detour had not cost me that much time.
In Cincinnati, I saw a group of three bikes pass going the other way on the freeway. Since they were the only ones I'd seen all day, I waved madly, and they waved back.
After just a little bit of stop and go traffic getting through Cincinnati, I stopped for gas just across the Kentucky border. Gas is cheaper in Kentucky than in Ohio. I was feeling pretty good, not very tired at all. That was when I decided to go to Deal's Gap. Of course I didn't know how to get there, but I knew it was near the Tennessee/North Carolina border, and I figured that once I got closer, I'd find it on a map, or find someone who could tell me. I stopped at the first rest area in Kentucky and picked up a map.
I headed on south, towards Lexington. I passed the truck with the truck-bed trailer again and waved. I started to see green grass along the roadways, instead of the grey-brown of all the grass in Michigan at this time of year. A bug splatted my face screen, the first one in months! I cheered to myself. It was not yet dark when I reached Lexington, and I still felt pretty good, so I decided I could get to Knoxville. The sun set when I was just south of Lexington. It was a beautiful sunset, fiery pink and orange streaks on a blue and purple background. One section of the clouds looked like soft straight yarn, and another section was bumpy like a boucle sweater. Then it was dark.
In Kentucky, they have these hideous, brightly lit billboards, arranged in nasty little groups on the tops of hills. They were awful, but there wasn't much else I could see after it got dark, besides the hypnotic flashing white lines in the center of the road, and the flashing neon of the tourist traps. The traffic was going insanely fast, at least by comparison to Ohio. I was alone with my thoughts. Just north of the border, I stopped for gas again. I picked a gas station, pulled in, and started pumping. That's when I noticed that there wasn't enough light to see into the gas tank. Uh-oh. This station didn't appear to have enough light over any of its pumps. I decided I'd rather not mess with paying them 50 cents for the gas and then moving to a new station, so I resolved to try my best with the bad lighting. My best wasn't good enough, the tank overflowed. Sigh. Cleaned it up, paid, and went on.
Tennessee was just like Kentucky, in the dark. Same tourist traps, same noxious brilliant billboards on the hillsides. Once again I stopped in the first rest area and got a map. I opened the map and looked for Deal's Gap, but it wasn't on there. I rode on. When I was almost to Knoxville, I started looking for a motel. I must have been tired, because I was getting obsessive. I couldn't pick one quickly enough to get off the freeway and go in. I didn't want some nasty dive where the room would have been terribly smoked in, and where the neighbors were noisy. I wanted one with a restaurant, one where I could get breakfast before leaving without having to suit up. Finally I settled for something less, because I was already through Knoxville and I knew I was getting too obsessive; I forced myself to stop at a Super 8, even though it had no restaurant.
The room I got was on the second floor, but it was clean and had a big bed. I took off my windbreaker and my leather jacket, and got a look at myself in the mirror. I looked like a madwoman, I was a grinning fool. My braids were two giant rats nests from whipping back and forth in the wind, my face was flushed, my eyes red. In my chaps and electric jacket with the wires sticking out I looked like I just stepped out of some dark action adventure movie. I went downstairs and moved the bike, parked it right below my room, and dragged my stuff upstairs. I got two cans of pop from the machine in the breezeway, and some ice. I looked longingly at the big whirlpool spa, but I hadn't brought a suit and I figured they'd probably object to nude hot tubbing. I settled for a long hot shower. When I took my clothes off, I discovered that I had red marks on my shoulders, chest, and stomach, where the wires ran in my electric jacket. The marks didn't hurt, but I made a mental note to wear a thicker, cotton turtleneck the next day, and to be cautious about turning it up too high. After my shower, I sat on the bed and watched the weather channel, looked at my maps, and ate food I'd brought from home. I left the curtains open a little when I went to sleep, so that in the morning I'd wake up to the light.
I woke up around 8am. Light was coming in, and despite the weather channel's predictions, it had not rained in the night, though it was fairly overcast. I watched out the window, as cardinals and robins frolicked in the tree outside. In Michigan, the robins leave us for the winter. I guess at least some of them go to Tennessee. There were lots of green growing things, though the deciduous trees still did not have leaves. I noticed that the red marks from the night before had faded, whew! I still put a thicker layer on under the electric jacket. I braided my hair, and packed up my things. When I opened the door, I could hear a rooster crowing somewhere nearby. I dropped the bags over the balcony to the bike, and went downstairs to strap them on.
While I was working on this, a car pulled up and stopped. The window rolled down to reveal a grimy looking fellow in mechanics coveralls, with five o'clock shadow and several missing front teeth. In an incredibly thick southern accent, he asked me if I wasn't cold riding that bike in this weather. I told him no, it's actually far warmer here than I'm used to, and besides I have electrics. He started telling me about his bike, a Kawasaki 350. He got out of the car and came over to see my Sabre. He said he liked his Kawasaki better because it didn't have a radiator. He spoke of suits like my electrics, that plugged into the cooling system in place of the radiator. I joked that anyone wearing something like that would have to be careful not to spring a leak. He asked where I was from, and I told him. He said he'd been to Michigan, he had relatives there. I said yes, lots of people in the Detroit area moved up there from Tennessee and Kentucky, to work in the auto industry. He said when he visited Michigan he didn't like it, because people there treated him like some kind of hick, and looked down on him, and that he wasn't just a dumb hillbilly even if his name *was* Billy, well, Bill actually. I said that's too bad. Since he was a biker, I asked him if he knew where Deal's Gap was. He had never heard of it, but he said he'd ask his friends and find out. I asked him if he had a radio in the car or something, to ask these friends and he said no, but they were sure to know. I didn't want to prolong the association while he hunted up his friends, so I thanked him kindly for his offer, and said I would find out from someone else. He said if I ever was in the area, he'd love to take me bike riding, and dancing and we could get a few beers. Assuming I liked beer, did I like beer? I said no. He asked did I like to dance? I said no. He shook his head in disgust and complained that I wasn't helping, that he was trying to find out what I liked, so he could show me a good time, and I wasn't being forthcoming enough. I said I liked to ride my motorcycle, and that I really must be going. He kept trying until I walked away even while he was still talking. Some people just can't take a polite no.
I made my escape back upstairs for the rest of my gear, and walked down to the motel office to check out. The hotel clerk was an older guy, and told me he was a biker too. He had owned a Harley low rider, but was now riding a Honda Shadow. He said he'd never go back to Harley, that he had gotten enough for his Harley to pay for the new Shadow and have money left over, and the Shadow had a much smoother nicer ride and far less mechanical trouble, yet it was just as pretty as the Harley. He asked what I was riding, I told him a Honda Sabre. He asked if it was the 750 or the 1100. I said the 1100. He said that's a big bike, how did I like it? I said I liked it lots; I'd ridden it from Michigan the day before. I asked him if he knew how to get to Deal's Gap. He did, and he gave me directions. We chatted more. It turns out he was retired from United Airlines, and working the motel job part time for something to do. He told me he lived out on 129 between Knoxville and Deal's Gap, and that he kept a spare room for bikers, that they just pull up and they stay with him, and that I could stay with him too sometime if I wanted to. I raised my eyebrows and he said, no really, they get their own room their own bed, he hears bikes pull up every now and then, and they just stay with him. I could bring my friends, he always loves to see more bikers. He gave me his name and phone number, said if I need anything, if my bike broke down or I had any trouble, to give him a call. I liked him very well, he was pleasant and I could tell he wasn't just trying to get laid, so I gave him my card. I was pleased to have met someone who would be backup if I had trouble, and I carefully stowed his name and phone number away in my tank bag.
While we were chatting, a small bike with no mufflers roared into the parking lot and around towards the end where my bike was parked. I looked out at the sound, and it was Billy from the hills. I mentioned something about it to the motel guy, who looked briefly concerned, but then the little bike roared past the office again and out of the lot, and off down the road towards the freeway.
When I rolled out of the motel lot, I was afraid the little bike would be waiting somewhere between there and the freeway. But I didn't worry too much. If he was out there and tried to follow me, the Sabre would give that little bike a serious spanking. Billy would never be able to follow me on it. Fortunately he was nowhere to be seen.
I stopped for gas on 129 just outside of Knoxville, and I should have stopped for breakfast. But I was itching to get going, so I didn't. I rode through my only rain of the trip, just after I left the gas station. It wasn't enough rain to get me wet, it just put a half dozen droplets onto my face shield, and then it stopped. The roads were damp, but not wet enough to generate any tire spray.
I followed 129 as it went from four lanes to two, and then turned left onto a smaller two lane. So far, it was your basic nice road, with lovely sweepers and the occasional tight curve. There were lots of houses on either side. Then the houses thinned out, and I came to a huge dam. The road paralleled the side of a reservoir for a little while. I saw one boat out there on the reservoir, a canoe or something, and then the road turned away from the water, and up into the hills. It got twistier, but it still wasn't as twisty as I'd expected. Eventually it got really twisty, and I figured I must be in that eleven mile stretch that is so talked about, even though there hadn't been any signs or obvious markings. I thought of what they'd said in my MSF class: "The friction zone is your friend." This was definitely true of Deal's Gap. The road was empty and there were no houses along it, no souvenir stands, nothing like that. The road was wet from early morning rain, but there were no puddles. I didn't see any other bikers, and I saw very few cars. I was pleased to see it this way, and tried to imagine it in summer, with hordes of bikers everywhere. I decided that while that would be fun to see, I was glad to have the place all to myself at that moment.
Eventually I came to the Crossroads of Time. I wanted to get my Deal's Gap t-shirt, but it was closed for the winter. Guess it'll just have to wait for next time.
I rode across into North Carolina. The road surface got a bit worse. There weren't any potholes, but there were these pavement patches that gave a very unsettling road feel when they were wet and on a curve. Fortunately the road was much less twisty; the curves were almost all gentle sweepers. I passed a small gas station on the left; I suspected that would be some seriously expensive gasoline. I had plenty of gas in the tank, and the place didn't look like it would have much food, so I didn't stop. A little while later I came to a somewhat larger party store, on the right. I stopped, and took off the helmet and earplugs. I could hear the rushing water of a brook somewhere around back, and it felt so nice to listen to it. I hate the earplugs!
A surly looking teenage boy with earrings was sitting on a folding chair just inside the store, and an older guy was behind the counter. They seemed taciturn at first, and the kid never did speak. But the man turned out to be friendly. He recommended I take the Skyway. He gave me directions, two rights and a left. Back outside, I packed my orange soda into my tank bag and rode off.
The skyway was gorgeous. The ride was less difficult than the Gap, which meant I had plenty of chance to look around. The road surface was good, and the views were awesome. The road was still damp in most places, though I did pass through some dry sections. Periodically I could see a patch of golden sunlight touch down on a hilltop somewhere within view. It was so incredibly pretty I could have stayed far longer.
I stopped at a scenic overlook (the sign named it Hooper's Cove) and parked the bike. I sat on a picnic table looking through a thin screen of trees out over the valley, munching some crackers and drinking my orange. I could hear a sound far below, like the drone of an expressway, but it never varied, so I decided it must be water, rather than interstate trucking. I couldn't see any water, though. I wandered around the area, and noticed that there were three or four different plants that had leaves on them, real green leaves! Cool! There were many small trees without leaves; I tried to guess what they were. Aspen, maybe, and oaks and poplars? I'm not much good at identifying trees by their bark, and the leaves were gone, but those were my guesses. I don't know what the leafy plants were, they weren't trees, more like shrubs. The near hills were a misty green, and farther away they were shades of blue, instead of the endless grey and brown my eyes were used to. I always forget how beautiful it is to see something other than the endless greys and browns of Michigan in winter.
I got back on the bike and continued up the road. I passed elevation markers, and eventually I was up above 5000 feet. At one point I rode through some wisps of clouds. I kept hoping the sky would clear, that I could see the area in sunshine, but it never did. I did get to ride through a couple of the sunny patches, though, and that was very nice.
The road came to a tee. The sign pointed one direction to Robbinsville, and the other direction to Tellico Plains. I consulted my map, and decided to turn towards Tellico Plains, because I needed to head back north and it was closer to I-75. I rode down through the hills. There were a lot of cut trees on either side of the road. I wondered about them, whether they were doing logging, or what? The cut trees seemed awfully small for logging, it didn't look that organized, and there were plenty of larger trees still standing. And I noticed a lot of broken trees, farther up the hillside, and some that had been uprooted. Maybe they had an ice storm or a wind storm, something that snapped a lot of trees, and the cut stuff I saw had been cleared from the road. The air had an intense smell of pine.
Kate Wolf started playing in my head, "Sweet smell the pines, tall western cedar, drifting on the wind, through the mountains like a river. I've been too long away from this wide open sky..."
I also saw several areas where it looked like the underbrush had burned, and I smelled smoke every now and then. I passed one hillside that I had obviously been hit by a forest fire within the last year or so. I was saddened by the charred and twisted remains of trees and the brown of the earth below. Soon I came to a sign that threatened construction ahead. The whole side of a hill had been dug out; it looked terrible. The dirt was this funny red color, and the plant cover was torn up to expose it. Mud was everywhere.
Tellico Plains was a very ugly little town. The land looked like the flood plain of a river, like it was probably all silt and mud flats. The buildings were run down, and there was a lot of rubbish strewn about everywhere. The contrast with the skyway was intense. I stopped for gas at a BP, and they had a large convenience store with a deli, with eight or nine booths. It was clean and bustling, and the people seemed friendly. I staked out a booth and took off a bunch of layers, and used the bathroom. I got some lunch and read my book. No one came over to talk. I didn't mind; I wasn't feeling that social anyway. While I was filling my gas tank, I saw a motorcycle ride past, the first one I'd seen all day. I couldn't tell what kind of bike it was, before it was gone. Some kind of cruiser, carrying two people, headed back the way I'd come.
By this time it was maybe 1:30 in the afternoon. That morning, the weather channel had been predicting freezing rain hitting Detroit late Sunday afternoon. I wanted to make tracks at least as far back as northern Kentucky before stopping for the night, so that in the morning I could get home before that freezing rain hit.
I headed up 68 towards I-75. The map listed it as a scenic road, but it didn't seem that scenic to me, and it was full of slow cages. I turned right onto 411 in the hopes of something better. Big mistake. More run down buildings, more rubbish-strewn yards. It was depressing, and there were even more cages. I didn't like it at all, so I turned again, onto 72. This was more like it. Hardly any cages, and not very many buildings along the road. Nice trees, wide shoulders, a very good road. I finally saw some bikers. Well, sort of. They were the little brothers, the ones without motors. Three brightly dressed sport bicyclists, obviously having a great ride. I gave them plenty of room, and waved as I passed.
I came to some water, and on the other side was some huge plant of some kind. It was vast and complicated looking, with a tall smokestack. I don't know what it was for. I crossed over a major road, US 11, and then I was back to I-75. I headed north. It was beautiful traveling I-75 north in the daylight. The billboards were much less obtrusive when I could see the landscape. The hillsides were lush and green. The traffic was moving along at a really fast clip. I tucked my feet up on the passenger pegs, rested my chest against my tank bag, and the miles disappeared under my tires.
For some reason, my mental soundtrack was stuck endlessly repeating this Captain Tractor song, called The Last Saskatchewan Pirate.
"And it's a heave ho high ho coming down the plains
Stealing wheat and barley and all the other grains
And it's a hey ho high ho farmers bar your doors
When you see the Jolly Roger on Regina's mighty shores..."
Sometimes the mental soundtrack can get so tiresome! I like this song, but I can only sing so many reps to myself before I really want something else in my brain.
Near the Kentucky/Tennessee border, I had an idea. I would call my friend Kevin, who lives outside of Cincinnati, see if he'd ride down a bit and meet me, and show me some cool places to ride in the northern Kentucky area. I was planning to spend the night somewhere in the vicinity anyway, and I'd be there by dusk. Plenty of time for such a diversion, either that night or in the morning. His wife Angie had just gotten a new bike, I could go see it, and we could get dinner together. So I stopped in the Kentucky "welcome center" rest area, and made the call. I got Angie on the phone. Kevin was working, and Angie was on her way to work. That's the problem with their jobs, they both have to work weird hours, and aren't necessarily free on Saturday nights. Angie and I exchanged some pleasantries, and I hung up because I was running out of change.
Back by the bike, a trucker stopped to talk to me. He was from Italy, but somehow had ended up driving a truck back and forth between the USA and Canada. His name was Marco. We chatted about the weather, the road, etc. Then he told me I was very cute, and he'd like to give me a hug. Sheesh! What is it with these people? First Billy, and now this guy. I said I didn't think that it would be a very good idea.
As I rode along on my way, I thought about these guys who were hitting on me in such bizarre fashion, and wondered why. I couldn't imagine I looked that appetizing, with my snarled hair, bloodshot eyes, and six layers of clothing, with electric wires sticking out. I'm a tall, sturdy woman, taller and more broad-shouldered than either Billy or Marco, far less vulnerable looking than your average sized or small woman. I was covered with road dirt, dressed for comfort and function rather than looks, and I don't think I was encouraging them. Maybe they were both fetishists, if I'd gone off with them they'd want me to dominate them, wear my leathers, stand on their heads and force them to lick the carpet. Now there was a laughable mental image. I decided to treat the passes as compliments, and not worry about them anymore. Still, I wondered if the truckers were looking at me and talking about me on their CBs. It was an unsettling thought.
I was well north of Lexington when it got dark. I thought about where I would like to stay. I didn't feel like going into another motel, it just didn't suit my mood. I thought about pitching my small tent beside a gas station or in a rest area somewhere, and sleeping the night in the tent. It would be cold, and I didn't know if my equipment was adequate for that. I wished I had a thermarest. But I figured what the heck, if I got too cold I could pack up and go; I didn't have to stay all night. Since the farther north I went, the colder it would be, I figured I'd better stop sooner rather than later. I have a friend, Russell, who camps in all kinds of weird places, and it works well for him. I started looking around for a likely spot. A rest area would be good; Russell had given me advice about camping in rest areas, that I should pitch my tent somewhere far enough from the parking lot that the cops would have to get out of their cars to roust me. He said they're too lazy to bother if you're too far from the car. I started watching for a rest area. Then I had another thought. Suppose Marco and his trucker pals had been chatting about me on the CB? They would all know where on the road I was, and if I camped in a rest area or by a gas station, truckers would spot the bike, and the tent. I might have unwelcome visitors. I decided not to follow Russell's example, not tonight. Maybe some other time.
Still, camping sounded appealing. I decided to look for an actual, official-type campground. I followed some camping signs, pulled off the freeway and followed the signs to a campground down in a hollow by a stream. It was pretty, but the air smelled of bad water, like someplace upstream a sewer system had overflowed. It wasn't intensely terrible, but it was noticeable. I pulled up and turned the bike off as quick as I could, since people were probably trying to sleep. The campground office was closed, and there was a sign on the door that said to put $19.50 in the slot if I wanted a site. I decided I didn't want to pay $19.50 to stay in such a place, especially since I didn't know if I'd be warm enough to get through the night. As I was looking at the sign, a police cruiser went through. I figured I wouldn't try to stay without paying.
Back to the bike, I plugged my electrics back in, got my leg back over and my gloves on, and tried to start the bike. It cranked and cranked, but it wouldn't start. Oh no! I turned off the electrics, to conserve power, and tried it again. I could smell gas; maybe it was flooded. I dogpaddled it back and turned it so it faced the road, and tried again. Still nothing. Maybe I would be staying here after all. I decided to wait a few minutes and try again. I sat and looked around the dimly lit campground. There were a couple dozen RVs and trailers, no tents anywhere that I could see. I wondered if I would even be able to find a decent tent spot. At least I wasn't cold, sitting still like that. After a few minutes thought, I realized something. In my hurry to shut down and not disturb people, I'd turned the killswitch off, and hadn't turned it back on. Dumbass! I turned it on, tried it, and the bike fired right up. Back out onto the road. I passed a truck stop with a big display that gave the time and temp. 8pm, 51 degrees. It was still pretty comfortable out. I decided to see if I could get home, it was only another couple hours, and if I couldn't, I could always get a motel room farther north.
I stopped north of Cincinnati and got gas again. I figured I better eat something, too; lunch in Tellico Plains had been a long time ago. I shed many of the layers in the restaurant, and used their bathroom. I cleaned the splatted bugs off my face shield, and the accumulated dirt. I don't know how I'd managed to avoid noticing how dirty my shield had gotten. It had been balmy when I went into the restaurant, but back outside I could see my breath. I rooted around in my tank bag and found some chemical hand and foot warmers. I went back inside to take off my boots and put the warmers in, and put the handwarmers in my mittens.
Once I got back on the freeway, and my electrics heated up properly, I felt pretty good. But it was downhill from there. By the time I got to my next gas stop, I was pretty well chilled. As soon as I slowed down, my glasses started to fog. I decided I didn't want to go in and have the "Aren't you cold riding in this weather" chat with the station attendant, so I was glad to pay at the pump. I put a second set of handwarmers in my mittens, and sandwiched my fingers between them. I still wasn't as cold as I had been leaving Michigan the morning before, but it was definitely less pleasant than the rest of the trip.
Eventually I made it home. It must have been 2am as I pulled in, because there were tons of cars coming out of the nightclub between the freeway and my subdivision. The cats were glad to see me. I turned the thermostat up and shivered violently for a half-hour or so. I was too wired to sleep immediately, so I checked my email. I checked my torso for red marks from the electrics, and didn't find any. Then I went to bed. This morning I got up to see snow falling. It's finally stopped now; we've had about six inches. I'm glad I chose to straight-shot it home last night; this snow would not be fun if I was trying to get home now.
Total trip distance was 1273 miles. The only annoying thing, other than the cold, was that my right hand was periodically cramping from holding the throttle. I've got this list of things I need to buy, and a throttle lock has now moved to a higher position than a windshield. The tank bag provides a bit of shielding from the wind, and if I had a windshield my glasses would probably just fog up. Also, I will need to buy some more mittens. I wore holes in the palm of the right hand, from gripping the throttle all weekend. Some heated grips might also be nice; the chemical handwarmers were a problem when I got caught in the traffic jams. They also gave me terrible hangnails. The chemical boot heaters worked very well, and I think it would be a pain to have more wiring to run electric ones, so I'll probably stick with that solution for awhile. At less than a dollar a set, it would take a long time to pay for electric boot heaters with the savings, and I can't imagine wanting to deal with all the wire for short trips around town, any more than I want to break open a chemical heater pack.
Friday morning I took my time getting the bike loaded. I rolled out of the driveway around 10:30am. I stopped at the gas station on the corner and filled the tank, and made a note of the mileage., 63669.1. I rode south on US-23. The air rushing through my helmet was so cold it made my eyes water, even with the forehead vent duct taped shut. I just kept reminding myself that this was as cold as it was going to be, that it would get better as I got farther south. I had two chemical warmers in each mitten, I had chemical boot warmers, and I had a large chemical warmer taped to each leg. I had my electric jacket over a silk turtleneck, exactly as Gerbing advised. I was plenty warm enough, except for my eyes. Cold eyeballs and temples are really awful.
I stopped for gas and lunch in Wapakoneta, Ohio. I sat for a good forty five minutes, eating slowly and reading my book. At the gas station, I noticed a truck pulling a trailer made out of the bed of an old truck. Then it was back on the road south. After lunch it was warmer; my eyes no longer bothered me.
By the time I got to the outskirts of Dayton, I felt quite comfortable. Then I ran into a traffic jam. Sigh. I was stuck for about ten minutes. My jacket was way too hot, but I couldn't get to the thermostat with my mittens on, and the traffic was moving just enough to keep me from getting them off. Worst of all, the warmers in my mittens were so warm they were burning the fingers on my left hand, and I was having to use the clutch continuously, so I couldn't adjust their position.
Finally I managed to break free and scoot down an off-ramp. Where I was, I did not know. I thought I might follow the cars that were leaving at the same off ramp, it was likely that some were local and would know how to get out of there. But the direction most of them were trying to go, to the right, was stopped just as dead as the traffic on the freeway. So I turned left and went under the bridge. There was water there on my right, curving around back the way I had come. So I followed, looking for a bridge. Eventually I came to the bridge, turned right and right again, and followed the water back toward the freeway. I came to the Carillon Park, and there was another road to the right, which I turned on. Soon I was going under the freeway again, and I could see the traffic jam was continuing. So I stayed on the surface street. I picked my way along, turning here, turning there, looking for a good southbound road but not finding one, trying to keep track of where I was in relation to I-75. I went around three sides of a huge landfill, and finally I ended up on a pretty road that ran along next to a levee, the road signs called it Day-Cinti Pike or something like that. I figured it must be the old state highway between Dayton and Cincinnati, so I stayed on it.
I came to a town of some sort, and there was a lot of traffic. So I pulled in to a restaurant parking lot to look at my maps. I was trying to figure out just where I was, when a guy in a phone company van pulled up and asked if I was lost. I said I was, and he gave me directions back to I-75. He also told me he was a biker, that he had a Harley, etc. He recommended US 68 as a route towards Lexington. I wanted to get south more quickly, so I filed this advice for future trips, and got back on I-75 south. Just after getting on the freeway, I passed the same truck with truck-bed trailer I'd seen in Wapakoneta, so I figured my detour had not cost me that much time.
In Cincinnati, I saw a group of three bikes pass going the other way on the freeway. Since they were the only ones I'd seen all day, I waved madly, and they waved back.
After just a little bit of stop and go traffic getting through Cincinnati, I stopped for gas just across the Kentucky border. Gas is cheaper in Kentucky than in Ohio. I was feeling pretty good, not very tired at all. That was when I decided to go to Deal's Gap. Of course I didn't know how to get there, but I knew it was near the Tennessee/North Carolina border, and I figured that once I got closer, I'd find it on a map, or find someone who could tell me. I stopped at the first rest area in Kentucky and picked up a map.
I headed on south, towards Lexington. I passed the truck with the truck-bed trailer again and waved. I started to see green grass along the roadways, instead of the grey-brown of all the grass in Michigan at this time of year. A bug splatted my face screen, the first one in months! I cheered to myself. It was not yet dark when I reached Lexington, and I still felt pretty good, so I decided I could get to Knoxville. The sun set when I was just south of Lexington. It was a beautiful sunset, fiery pink and orange streaks on a blue and purple background. One section of the clouds looked like soft straight yarn, and another section was bumpy like a boucle sweater. Then it was dark.
In Kentucky, they have these hideous, brightly lit billboards, arranged in nasty little groups on the tops of hills. They were awful, but there wasn't much else I could see after it got dark, besides the hypnotic flashing white lines in the center of the road, and the flashing neon of the tourist traps. The traffic was going insanely fast, at least by comparison to Ohio. I was alone with my thoughts. Just north of the border, I stopped for gas again. I picked a gas station, pulled in, and started pumping. That's when I noticed that there wasn't enough light to see into the gas tank. Uh-oh. This station didn't appear to have enough light over any of its pumps. I decided I'd rather not mess with paying them 50 cents for the gas and then moving to a new station, so I resolved to try my best with the bad lighting. My best wasn't good enough, the tank overflowed. Sigh. Cleaned it up, paid, and went on.
Tennessee was just like Kentucky, in the dark. Same tourist traps, same noxious brilliant billboards on the hillsides. Once again I stopped in the first rest area and got a map. I opened the map and looked for Deal's Gap, but it wasn't on there. I rode on. When I was almost to Knoxville, I started looking for a motel. I must have been tired, because I was getting obsessive. I couldn't pick one quickly enough to get off the freeway and go in. I didn't want some nasty dive where the room would have been terribly smoked in, and where the neighbors were noisy. I wanted one with a restaurant, one where I could get breakfast before leaving without having to suit up. Finally I settled for something less, because I was already through Knoxville and I knew I was getting too obsessive; I forced myself to stop at a Super 8, even though it had no restaurant.
The room I got was on the second floor, but it was clean and had a big bed. I took off my windbreaker and my leather jacket, and got a look at myself in the mirror. I looked like a madwoman, I was a grinning fool. My braids were two giant rats nests from whipping back and forth in the wind, my face was flushed, my eyes red. In my chaps and electric jacket with the wires sticking out I looked like I just stepped out of some dark action adventure movie. I went downstairs and moved the bike, parked it right below my room, and dragged my stuff upstairs. I got two cans of pop from the machine in the breezeway, and some ice. I looked longingly at the big whirlpool spa, but I hadn't brought a suit and I figured they'd probably object to nude hot tubbing. I settled for a long hot shower. When I took my clothes off, I discovered that I had red marks on my shoulders, chest, and stomach, where the wires ran in my electric jacket. The marks didn't hurt, but I made a mental note to wear a thicker, cotton turtleneck the next day, and to be cautious about turning it up too high. After my shower, I sat on the bed and watched the weather channel, looked at my maps, and ate food I'd brought from home. I left the curtains open a little when I went to sleep, so that in the morning I'd wake up to the light.
I woke up around 8am. Light was coming in, and despite the weather channel's predictions, it had not rained in the night, though it was fairly overcast. I watched out the window, as cardinals and robins frolicked in the tree outside. In Michigan, the robins leave us for the winter. I guess at least some of them go to Tennessee. There were lots of green growing things, though the deciduous trees still did not have leaves. I noticed that the red marks from the night before had faded, whew! I still put a thicker layer on under the electric jacket. I braided my hair, and packed up my things. When I opened the door, I could hear a rooster crowing somewhere nearby. I dropped the bags over the balcony to the bike, and went downstairs to strap them on.
While I was working on this, a car pulled up and stopped. The window rolled down to reveal a grimy looking fellow in mechanics coveralls, with five o'clock shadow and several missing front teeth. In an incredibly thick southern accent, he asked me if I wasn't cold riding that bike in this weather. I told him no, it's actually far warmer here than I'm used to, and besides I have electrics. He started telling me about his bike, a Kawasaki 350. He got out of the car and came over to see my Sabre. He said he liked his Kawasaki better because it didn't have a radiator. He spoke of suits like my electrics, that plugged into the cooling system in place of the radiator. I joked that anyone wearing something like that would have to be careful not to spring a leak. He asked where I was from, and I told him. He said he'd been to Michigan, he had relatives there. I said yes, lots of people in the Detroit area moved up there from Tennessee and Kentucky, to work in the auto industry. He said when he visited Michigan he didn't like it, because people there treated him like some kind of hick, and looked down on him, and that he wasn't just a dumb hillbilly even if his name *was* Billy, well, Bill actually. I said that's too bad. Since he was a biker, I asked him if he knew where Deal's Gap was. He had never heard of it, but he said he'd ask his friends and find out. I asked him if he had a radio in the car or something, to ask these friends and he said no, but they were sure to know. I didn't want to prolong the association while he hunted up his friends, so I thanked him kindly for his offer, and said I would find out from someone else. He said if I ever was in the area, he'd love to take me bike riding, and dancing and we could get a few beers. Assuming I liked beer, did I like beer? I said no. He asked did I like to dance? I said no. He shook his head in disgust and complained that I wasn't helping, that he was trying to find out what I liked, so he could show me a good time, and I wasn't being forthcoming enough. I said I liked to ride my motorcycle, and that I really must be going. He kept trying until I walked away even while he was still talking. Some people just can't take a polite no.
I made my escape back upstairs for the rest of my gear, and walked down to the motel office to check out. The hotel clerk was an older guy, and told me he was a biker too. He had owned a Harley low rider, but was now riding a Honda Shadow. He said he'd never go back to Harley, that he had gotten enough for his Harley to pay for the new Shadow and have money left over, and the Shadow had a much smoother nicer ride and far less mechanical trouble, yet it was just as pretty as the Harley. He asked what I was riding, I told him a Honda Sabre. He asked if it was the 750 or the 1100. I said the 1100. He said that's a big bike, how did I like it? I said I liked it lots; I'd ridden it from Michigan the day before. I asked him if he knew how to get to Deal's Gap. He did, and he gave me directions. We chatted more. It turns out he was retired from United Airlines, and working the motel job part time for something to do. He told me he lived out on 129 between Knoxville and Deal's Gap, and that he kept a spare room for bikers, that they just pull up and they stay with him, and that I could stay with him too sometime if I wanted to. I raised my eyebrows and he said, no really, they get their own room their own bed, he hears bikes pull up every now and then, and they just stay with him. I could bring my friends, he always loves to see more bikers. He gave me his name and phone number, said if I need anything, if my bike broke down or I had any trouble, to give him a call. I liked him very well, he was pleasant and I could tell he wasn't just trying to get laid, so I gave him my card. I was pleased to have met someone who would be backup if I had trouble, and I carefully stowed his name and phone number away in my tank bag.
While we were chatting, a small bike with no mufflers roared into the parking lot and around towards the end where my bike was parked. I looked out at the sound, and it was Billy from the hills. I mentioned something about it to the motel guy, who looked briefly concerned, but then the little bike roared past the office again and out of the lot, and off down the road towards the freeway.
When I rolled out of the motel lot, I was afraid the little bike would be waiting somewhere between there and the freeway. But I didn't worry too much. If he was out there and tried to follow me, the Sabre would give that little bike a serious spanking. Billy would never be able to follow me on it. Fortunately he was nowhere to be seen.
I stopped for gas on 129 just outside of Knoxville, and I should have stopped for breakfast. But I was itching to get going, so I didn't. I rode through my only rain of the trip, just after I left the gas station. It wasn't enough rain to get me wet, it just put a half dozen droplets onto my face shield, and then it stopped. The roads were damp, but not wet enough to generate any tire spray.
I followed 129 as it went from four lanes to two, and then turned left onto a smaller two lane. So far, it was your basic nice road, with lovely sweepers and the occasional tight curve. There were lots of houses on either side. Then the houses thinned out, and I came to a huge dam. The road paralleled the side of a reservoir for a little while. I saw one boat out there on the reservoir, a canoe or something, and then the road turned away from the water, and up into the hills. It got twistier, but it still wasn't as twisty as I'd expected. Eventually it got really twisty, and I figured I must be in that eleven mile stretch that is so talked about, even though there hadn't been any signs or obvious markings. I thought of what they'd said in my MSF class: "The friction zone is your friend." This was definitely true of Deal's Gap. The road was empty and there were no houses along it, no souvenir stands, nothing like that. The road was wet from early morning rain, but there were no puddles. I didn't see any other bikers, and I saw very few cars. I was pleased to see it this way, and tried to imagine it in summer, with hordes of bikers everywhere. I decided that while that would be fun to see, I was glad to have the place all to myself at that moment.
Eventually I came to the Crossroads of Time. I wanted to get my Deal's Gap t-shirt, but it was closed for the winter. Guess it'll just have to wait for next time.
I rode across into North Carolina. The road surface got a bit worse. There weren't any potholes, but there were these pavement patches that gave a very unsettling road feel when they were wet and on a curve. Fortunately the road was much less twisty; the curves were almost all gentle sweepers. I passed a small gas station on the left; I suspected that would be some seriously expensive gasoline. I had plenty of gas in the tank, and the place didn't look like it would have much food, so I didn't stop. A little while later I came to a somewhat larger party store, on the right. I stopped, and took off the helmet and earplugs. I could hear the rushing water of a brook somewhere around back, and it felt so nice to listen to it. I hate the earplugs!
A surly looking teenage boy with earrings was sitting on a folding chair just inside the store, and an older guy was behind the counter. They seemed taciturn at first, and the kid never did speak. But the man turned out to be friendly. He recommended I take the Skyway. He gave me directions, two rights and a left. Back outside, I packed my orange soda into my tank bag and rode off.
The skyway was gorgeous. The ride was less difficult than the Gap, which meant I had plenty of chance to look around. The road surface was good, and the views were awesome. The road was still damp in most places, though I did pass through some dry sections. Periodically I could see a patch of golden sunlight touch down on a hilltop somewhere within view. It was so incredibly pretty I could have stayed far longer.
I stopped at a scenic overlook (the sign named it Hooper's Cove) and parked the bike. I sat on a picnic table looking through a thin screen of trees out over the valley, munching some crackers and drinking my orange. I could hear a sound far below, like the drone of an expressway, but it never varied, so I decided it must be water, rather than interstate trucking. I couldn't see any water, though. I wandered around the area, and noticed that there were three or four different plants that had leaves on them, real green leaves! Cool! There were many small trees without leaves; I tried to guess what they were. Aspen, maybe, and oaks and poplars? I'm not much good at identifying trees by their bark, and the leaves were gone, but those were my guesses. I don't know what the leafy plants were, they weren't trees, more like shrubs. The near hills were a misty green, and farther away they were shades of blue, instead of the endless grey and brown my eyes were used to. I always forget how beautiful it is to see something other than the endless greys and browns of Michigan in winter.
I got back on the bike and continued up the road. I passed elevation markers, and eventually I was up above 5000 feet. At one point I rode through some wisps of clouds. I kept hoping the sky would clear, that I could see the area in sunshine, but it never did. I did get to ride through a couple of the sunny patches, though, and that was very nice.
The road came to a tee. The sign pointed one direction to Robbinsville, and the other direction to Tellico Plains. I consulted my map, and decided to turn towards Tellico Plains, because I needed to head back north and it was closer to I-75. I rode down through the hills. There were a lot of cut trees on either side of the road. I wondered about them, whether they were doing logging, or what? The cut trees seemed awfully small for logging, it didn't look that organized, and there were plenty of larger trees still standing. And I noticed a lot of broken trees, farther up the hillside, and some that had been uprooted. Maybe they had an ice storm or a wind storm, something that snapped a lot of trees, and the cut stuff I saw had been cleared from the road. The air had an intense smell of pine.
Kate Wolf started playing in my head, "Sweet smell the pines, tall western cedar, drifting on the wind, through the mountains like a river. I've been too long away from this wide open sky..."
I also saw several areas where it looked like the underbrush had burned, and I smelled smoke every now and then. I passed one hillside that I had obviously been hit by a forest fire within the last year or so. I was saddened by the charred and twisted remains of trees and the brown of the earth below. Soon I came to a sign that threatened construction ahead. The whole side of a hill had been dug out; it looked terrible. The dirt was this funny red color, and the plant cover was torn up to expose it. Mud was everywhere.
Tellico Plains was a very ugly little town. The land looked like the flood plain of a river, like it was probably all silt and mud flats. The buildings were run down, and there was a lot of rubbish strewn about everywhere. The contrast with the skyway was intense. I stopped for gas at a BP, and they had a large convenience store with a deli, with eight or nine booths. It was clean and bustling, and the people seemed friendly. I staked out a booth and took off a bunch of layers, and used the bathroom. I got some lunch and read my book. No one came over to talk. I didn't mind; I wasn't feeling that social anyway. While I was filling my gas tank, I saw a motorcycle ride past, the first one I'd seen all day. I couldn't tell what kind of bike it was, before it was gone. Some kind of cruiser, carrying two people, headed back the way I'd come.
By this time it was maybe 1:30 in the afternoon. That morning, the weather channel had been predicting freezing rain hitting Detroit late Sunday afternoon. I wanted to make tracks at least as far back as northern Kentucky before stopping for the night, so that in the morning I could get home before that freezing rain hit.
I headed up 68 towards I-75. The map listed it as a scenic road, but it didn't seem that scenic to me, and it was full of slow cages. I turned right onto 411 in the hopes of something better. Big mistake. More run down buildings, more rubbish-strewn yards. It was depressing, and there were even more cages. I didn't like it at all, so I turned again, onto 72. This was more like it. Hardly any cages, and not very many buildings along the road. Nice trees, wide shoulders, a very good road. I finally saw some bikers. Well, sort of. They were the little brothers, the ones without motors. Three brightly dressed sport bicyclists, obviously having a great ride. I gave them plenty of room, and waved as I passed.
I came to some water, and on the other side was some huge plant of some kind. It was vast and complicated looking, with a tall smokestack. I don't know what it was for. I crossed over a major road, US 11, and then I was back to I-75. I headed north. It was beautiful traveling I-75 north in the daylight. The billboards were much less obtrusive when I could see the landscape. The hillsides were lush and green. The traffic was moving along at a really fast clip. I tucked my feet up on the passenger pegs, rested my chest against my tank bag, and the miles disappeared under my tires.
For some reason, my mental soundtrack was stuck endlessly repeating this Captain Tractor song, called The Last Saskatchewan Pirate.
"And it's a heave ho high ho coming down the plains
Stealing wheat and barley and all the other grains
And it's a hey ho high ho farmers bar your doors
When you see the Jolly Roger on Regina's mighty shores..."
Sometimes the mental soundtrack can get so tiresome! I like this song, but I can only sing so many reps to myself before I really want something else in my brain.
Near the Kentucky/Tennessee border, I had an idea. I would call my friend Kevin, who lives outside of Cincinnati, see if he'd ride down a bit and meet me, and show me some cool places to ride in the northern Kentucky area. I was planning to spend the night somewhere in the vicinity anyway, and I'd be there by dusk. Plenty of time for such a diversion, either that night or in the morning. His wife Angie had just gotten a new bike, I could go see it, and we could get dinner together. So I stopped in the Kentucky "welcome center" rest area, and made the call. I got Angie on the phone. Kevin was working, and Angie was on her way to work. That's the problem with their jobs, they both have to work weird hours, and aren't necessarily free on Saturday nights. Angie and I exchanged some pleasantries, and I hung up because I was running out of change.
Back by the bike, a trucker stopped to talk to me. He was from Italy, but somehow had ended up driving a truck back and forth between the USA and Canada. His name was Marco. We chatted about the weather, the road, etc. Then he told me I was very cute, and he'd like to give me a hug. Sheesh! What is it with these people? First Billy, and now this guy. I said I didn't think that it would be a very good idea.
As I rode along on my way, I thought about these guys who were hitting on me in such bizarre fashion, and wondered why. I couldn't imagine I looked that appetizing, with my snarled hair, bloodshot eyes, and six layers of clothing, with electric wires sticking out. I'm a tall, sturdy woman, taller and more broad-shouldered than either Billy or Marco, far less vulnerable looking than your average sized or small woman. I was covered with road dirt, dressed for comfort and function rather than looks, and I don't think I was encouraging them. Maybe they were both fetishists, if I'd gone off with them they'd want me to dominate them, wear my leathers, stand on their heads and force them to lick the carpet. Now there was a laughable mental image. I decided to treat the passes as compliments, and not worry about them anymore. Still, I wondered if the truckers were looking at me and talking about me on their CBs. It was an unsettling thought.
I was well north of Lexington when it got dark. I thought about where I would like to stay. I didn't feel like going into another motel, it just didn't suit my mood. I thought about pitching my small tent beside a gas station or in a rest area somewhere, and sleeping the night in the tent. It would be cold, and I didn't know if my equipment was adequate for that. I wished I had a thermarest. But I figured what the heck, if I got too cold I could pack up and go; I didn't have to stay all night. Since the farther north I went, the colder it would be, I figured I'd better stop sooner rather than later. I have a friend, Russell, who camps in all kinds of weird places, and it works well for him. I started looking around for a likely spot. A rest area would be good; Russell had given me advice about camping in rest areas, that I should pitch my tent somewhere far enough from the parking lot that the cops would have to get out of their cars to roust me. He said they're too lazy to bother if you're too far from the car. I started watching for a rest area. Then I had another thought. Suppose Marco and his trucker pals had been chatting about me on the CB? They would all know where on the road I was, and if I camped in a rest area or by a gas station, truckers would spot the bike, and the tent. I might have unwelcome visitors. I decided not to follow Russell's example, not tonight. Maybe some other time.
Still, camping sounded appealing. I decided to look for an actual, official-type campground. I followed some camping signs, pulled off the freeway and followed the signs to a campground down in a hollow by a stream. It was pretty, but the air smelled of bad water, like someplace upstream a sewer system had overflowed. It wasn't intensely terrible, but it was noticeable. I pulled up and turned the bike off as quick as I could, since people were probably trying to sleep. The campground office was closed, and there was a sign on the door that said to put $19.50 in the slot if I wanted a site. I decided I didn't want to pay $19.50 to stay in such a place, especially since I didn't know if I'd be warm enough to get through the night. As I was looking at the sign, a police cruiser went through. I figured I wouldn't try to stay without paying.
Back to the bike, I plugged my electrics back in, got my leg back over and my gloves on, and tried to start the bike. It cranked and cranked, but it wouldn't start. Oh no! I turned off the electrics, to conserve power, and tried it again. I could smell gas; maybe it was flooded. I dogpaddled it back and turned it so it faced the road, and tried again. Still nothing. Maybe I would be staying here after all. I decided to wait a few minutes and try again. I sat and looked around the dimly lit campground. There were a couple dozen RVs and trailers, no tents anywhere that I could see. I wondered if I would even be able to find a decent tent spot. At least I wasn't cold, sitting still like that. After a few minutes thought, I realized something. In my hurry to shut down and not disturb people, I'd turned the killswitch off, and hadn't turned it back on. Dumbass! I turned it on, tried it, and the bike fired right up. Back out onto the road. I passed a truck stop with a big display that gave the time and temp. 8pm, 51 degrees. It was still pretty comfortable out. I decided to see if I could get home, it was only another couple hours, and if I couldn't, I could always get a motel room farther north.
I stopped north of Cincinnati and got gas again. I figured I better eat something, too; lunch in Tellico Plains had been a long time ago. I shed many of the layers in the restaurant, and used their bathroom. I cleaned the splatted bugs off my face shield, and the accumulated dirt. I don't know how I'd managed to avoid noticing how dirty my shield had gotten. It had been balmy when I went into the restaurant, but back outside I could see my breath. I rooted around in my tank bag and found some chemical hand and foot warmers. I went back inside to take off my boots and put the warmers in, and put the handwarmers in my mittens.
Once I got back on the freeway, and my electrics heated up properly, I felt pretty good. But it was downhill from there. By the time I got to my next gas stop, I was pretty well chilled. As soon as I slowed down, my glasses started to fog. I decided I didn't want to go in and have the "Aren't you cold riding in this weather" chat with the station attendant, so I was glad to pay at the pump. I put a second set of handwarmers in my mittens, and sandwiched my fingers between them. I still wasn't as cold as I had been leaving Michigan the morning before, but it was definitely less pleasant than the rest of the trip.
Eventually I made it home. It must have been 2am as I pulled in, because there were tons of cars coming out of the nightclub between the freeway and my subdivision. The cats were glad to see me. I turned the thermostat up and shivered violently for a half-hour or so. I was too wired to sleep immediately, so I checked my email. I checked my torso for red marks from the electrics, and didn't find any. Then I went to bed. This morning I got up to see snow falling. It's finally stopped now; we've had about six inches. I'm glad I chose to straight-shot it home last night; this snow would not be fun if I was trying to get home now.
Total trip distance was 1273 miles. The only annoying thing, other than the cold, was that my right hand was periodically cramping from holding the throttle. I've got this list of things I need to buy, and a throttle lock has now moved to a higher position than a windshield. The tank bag provides a bit of shielding from the wind, and if I had a windshield my glasses would probably just fog up. Also, I will need to buy some more mittens. I wore holes in the palm of the right hand, from gripping the throttle all weekend. Some heated grips might also be nice; the chemical handwarmers were a problem when I got caught in the traffic jams. They also gave me terrible hangnails. The chemical boot heaters worked very well, and I think it would be a pain to have more wiring to run electric ones, so I'll probably stick with that solution for awhile. At less than a dollar a set, it would take a long time to pay for electric boot heaters with the savings, and I can't imagine wanting to deal with all the wire for short trips around town, any more than I want to break open a chemical heater pack.
