Travels with jdrocks-the Blue Ridge

hey jack, saw some of your moto amigos from the CDR out at Catherders, scotty had the cowboy hat...must mean he wants a return trip.

THE GEORGE DUBYA​

​

Saturday, August 25, 197 miles

The bike was prepped and packed, sitting outside, nose pointed the right direction, but rain had been pounding on the roof since 5AM, not just a little either. This was a full blown gale, the day was a lady dressed in funeral black, not a hint of comfort, not a hint of light anywhere. I was headed west to a Catherder campout in the Shenandoah, 200 miles, sorry ain't going to fire up the rat in a 2" an hour rain and 40MPH winds, might get a sniffle.

Weather radar was up, no breaks, but I could afford some time to wait it out, miss the group ride, and still make the party later. Hold that thought, rain coming down sideways, phone rings, now I had a meeting at the office for 5PM, the other party might be as early as 4:30. Do the math, that schedule had me crossing the mountain around 10PM, won't work, and I unpacked the bike, no campout for me.

Instead, I was now riding to Winchester for a birthday party, might see some Catherders Sunday. Switched some things to a tail bag, over to the office just as the rain quits, ready for my meeting.



The early meeting time came and went, so I was on the phone at 5 just to see if the guy was getting close, might be able to run the first hundred miles in daylight. "I'm running a little late", and when he described where he was, some snail slow back road route, I realized I was looking at a 6:30 meeting on Saturday night, the reward for being accommodating. I hate late.

Hour and a half to kill, checked the TV radar, clearing to the west a little, good, and when I walked back outside it was raining again, threatening clouds scudding across the sky from the southwest.



I had never noticed that my business neighbor's repeater tower was not plumb until I tried to get a good cloud photo, at least I'm not in the catastrophic failure fall zone, about the only bright spot today. No, the bright spot was that I didn't have a 9mm CC with me, might have shot some fool for being two hours late. Not really, probably quit after a few near miss shots, no blood, but I was getting more agitated by the second, and started checking around the shop for that spare axe handle, another fifteen minutes, then I was looking for a chainsaw.

"Sorry I'm late", ya ya, don't worry about it, because this was going to be a short meeting, our first, last, and only, thanks, goodbye, have a good trip home, and I locked up the office at 7 freakin' PM. I never bothered to give him a business card, sorry, if ya happened to look like Johnny Cash having a damn bad day and had a cranial cavity filled with swamp water, we ain't likely to be doin' any bidness. All in all, it was one of those cluster things, a heck of a way to start a trip, even a short one.

(to be continued...)

I've had those days

Today there’s a new BMW sedan behind me, diplomatic plates or something, anyway, they ain’t from the YU-ESS-OFA. French Guyana, I guess, or at least that’s what the sticker on the window said. I don’t think they’re going to the Beach for a tan, could be the taffy. Might be diplomats, so I’ll be diplomatic and say the lady driver was big boned…that’s super secret international spy code for say, four hundred pounds.

​

the day ain't over yet, stay tuned.

that's the place, although it's bigger than just the Parkway, and as i've said, it does look blue out there in the right light...even in winter.

i don't know if it would be a good idea for that diplomat gal to head out to the Blue Ridge, heck, if she had the misfortune to stub her toe and take a tumble, she'd bounce and roll down hill in her shape wear all the way to North Carolina...kinda like a jumbo rubber ball.

Geared back up, and I’'m gone, but only 1 mile before I stopped for fuel, that'’s right, 1 mile, down to the exact inch, the fuel light was on. Yeah, I was thinking the same thing, why hadn'’t I fueled up the bike while I was waitin’' for that dummy dude, but it was a complex explanation involving some obscure physics equations that most wouldn'’t understand, despite ponderous claims to the contrary from elements in the Euro bike crowd. In more simple terms, the phantom vroooom, vroooom sounds I had been experiencing for over 12 hours had gone critical, the concussive effects had left me largely unbalanced, I had lost inertia, stalled. Scientifically speaking, I'’d had a mental eclipse, brain waves lost in an electron fog, I’'d swerved into the unequivocally freakin'’ nutso lane. I needed gasoline really bad, hide the matches.

I could get a good look west across the open fields around the quik mart, dark clouds, more dark clouds, distant thunder, and I was in a fury to get movin'’, screw the damn radar, I was in for it, no doubt. The card reader on the pump wouldn'’t work. The card reader on the pump over on the next island wouldn’'t work either. Fire was shooting out of my eye sockets, smoke billowing out of my ears, I was about to go postal, keep 911 on speed dial. A young lady approached, she’'d seen what was going on, maybe saw the smoke and was angling for the fire extinguisher, don'’t know, but she said lightning had knocked out their com link, cash for everything. Ok, got it, and she was damn cute, beautiful smile, too bad about the dipped in orange mud spray tan.

Stomped through the front door, twenty-five people in line, no way I was going to be number twenty-six, walked right up to the register, launched a twenty at the cashier, "“Turn on the pump"”. Must have had that certain look, nobody said a word, nobody make eye contact, mainly they were all lookin'’ a little fidgety, nervous, upcoming events uncertain. Filled the tank, marched back in for my change, it was waiting for me on the top of the register, no delay, no small talk pleasantries, the line was even longer.

Man, I needed to get away from here, daylight and weather against me, I wasn'’t properly attired for this place anyway, kinda like showing up for a black tie event in John Daly golf wear. Ain'’t got the wife-beater, ain'’t got the ripped board shorts, ain'’t got the flipflops, ain'’t accessorized with a color coordinated 12pack in each hand. I was hopelessly outta touch with the mainstream rural quik mart masses, oh well.

Back on the bike, gear vents locked down, and I charged a temporary stop light a mile away, the exhaust note soaring up and down in deafening whoops, my brain molecules were now lined up in neat rows, my head was back in the game, and I was gone to Winchester. Got the green light, on the gas, a monster lightning bolt hits a tall Loblolly pine near the other end of the bridge, I'’m freakin’' blinded by the arc flash, sounds like a huge bomb went off…, and at that exact second, the rain starts comin'’ down, cats and dogs.

(to be continued…)

I suspect at this point in time a lesser man would have pissed on the fire, called in the dogs, and headed on back to Bowlegs... But I suspect that ain't what happened, is it ?

Several years ago when I lived in Wyoming I saw the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band in concert and they played "Bowlegs", a song I've always appreciated, and prior to singing the song they gave the background: apparently this Indian man had escaped the Reservation but every now and then the white man's world crashed down on him and he felt he had to re-center himself by returning to his family home of Bowlegs, Oklahoma. Some days I think we can all certainly empathize!

Nitty Gritty Dirt Band - BOWLEGS
Jeff Hanna

Sometimes things don't work out, but that's how life is, son:
All them little miseries to keep you on the run.
One mornin' you may wake up with your face down in the eggs,
So just put out the fire, call in the dogs, an' head it on back to Bowlegs.
Y'all just put out the fire, call in the dogs, an' head it on back to Bowlegs.

Well, lots o' people in this world are tryin' to make a buck.
Some folks ride in a limousine while others drive them big ol' Peterbilt trucks.
Remember that ol' saying 'bout the round holes and square pegs,
An' just put out the fire, call in the dogs, an' head it on back to Bowlegs.
Well, just put out the fire, call in the dogs, an' head it on back to Bowlegs.

There's no use tryin' to be what you're not.
You run on a treadmill and you'll get tired a lot.
Why not take some advice from me,
Even though I ain't no McCartney? (Yeah, yeah, yeah.)
Well, the moral of this story escapes me at this time.
I've been too busy standin' up here just tryin' to make this sh*@ rhyme.
I'm a crazy drunken fool. When I finish off this keg,
I'm gonna piss on the fire, call in the dogs, an' head it on back to Bowlegs.
Piss on the fire, call in the dogs, an' head it on back to Bowlegs.

When I have the kind of day you've only just begun to describe, this song pops into my head and helps me laugh it off.

Cheers, and .

Doug

good song, but you're right, that ain't what happened.

got to keep some perspective on "the little problems", read on.

I was off the gas, the bridge deck vibrating under the bike from the blast, the pressure wave had smacked me right in the chest, unbelievable, without ear plugs in, I’'d have been deaf. Quick glance at the mirrors, the car behind had run up on me in the lightning strike and rain, I could have nearly reached back and touched it before the driver hit the brakes, stopping dead on the bridge, stunned most likely. Lucky I was playing horseshoes today, and with the euphoria that a near miss produces every single time, I was pounding on the shifter, rolling northwest, the horizon a little lighter.

At the thirty mile mark, I had run out of the rain, and was running along as fast as I could get away with, not much daylight left, I was going to get in late. These roads were overrun with deer, a gazillion, my hope was that the wet weather would keep them bedded down back in the woods, no social hour, no snacking on the road side grasses.

On the road for an hour, the last of the light, a few drops hit the visor, then a few more, then a skinny cat, a furry dog, a bucket, and I was riding through a flowing wall of water, wind whipped, I couldn'’t recall anything quite like it, not at night anyway. Over two hundred watts of light were pointed the direction I was headed, damn, I could barely see the pavement markings 50'’ in front of the bike. Very little traffic, most people apparently had the good sense to stay home, and half the vehicles I encountered had pulled off on the side, waiting out the rain, they couldn'’t see the road either.

I had slowed to a speed that could be outpaced by a fast mule, still moving, practicing my free style stroke, could have been swimming there was so much water around me. The ditches were overflowing, streams running across the road surface, ponds building where the outflow backed up. I could have towed a water skier, that was a thought. A trick I learned was to put a substitute destination in place, insert a way station, and that’s what I did to make the conditions more bearable. Now my stop was in reach, I could count down the miles.

I had run as far as Massaponax, the junction with I95, in the worst rain I had ever encountered on a bike, …mostly in the dark, man, I needed a suitable reward, how ‘bout some grilled lard at Burger King, sounds good. The turnoff intersection to get there was flooded, when I put my feet down at the stoplight, I was standing in a foot of water, vehicles were making waves, ya coulda surfed. My visor had fogged to the point of useless, someone throw me a life ring, I was goin’' under.

I was the only customer at BK, not another person in the whole place, so I wasn'’t all that concerned that some little kid would drown in the sixth Great Lake created by all the water running off my gear. Ya could have stocked it with fish, set up a water slide, put in a boat ramp, …it was a damn big lake. Since I was the only one there, I got the fastest fast food in the history of western civilization, my tray was on the counter before I put my change in my pocket. Sat down, poof, the food was gone, done disappeared. Just ‘cause I was duck dog wet, didn'’t mean I wasn'’t hungry. Heck, I was still hungry enough to eat half way through the contents of the Ark, at least the ones that would fit on the grill.

The manager stopped at the table, and I apologized for the mess I was making, no big deal to her, the crew was just loafing around with nothing to do, now they could get out the mops, drain the lake. I took a few minutes to work on the visor, new antifog, and a cleaning with Plexus, then back into some very soggy gear.

I was in a good sweet groove in spite of the rain, had been fed and watered, so when I fired up the rat it was with some optimism, it didn'’t seem likely that this rain could last another hundred miles. I had a short hop on I95, always hazardous in poor conditions, those drivers don'’t slow down for anything, so between the rain and the spray coming off the cars and big rigs, the conditions were horrific for a rider. I was pleased to exit, and was riding northwest again.

Riding the home stretch roads, still raining an inch an hour, when up around Delaplane, I ran completely out of the rain in a quarter mile of road. The road was now bone dry, strange, but so very welcome, whew. Opened the motor up to a normal cruising speed, the last miles a simple breeze. The garage door was open when I reached the house at 11, three generations of women standing under the yard lights, waiting for me, the welcoming committee, none better. Hellos and hugs, and a short conversation with my wife…

“Rain?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Yes.”
“Real bad?”
“Yes.”
“Monsoon?”
“Yes.”
“Bourbon?”
“Yes.”
“Rocks?”
“No, just bring the bottle.”

I had battled along the outer edge of wild in the dark this night, I deserved a taste, I believed I’'d earned it. So, in the end and once again, I had survived a little problem, but man, I needed to keep things in perspective. Custer had a little problem at the Little Bighorn, mine was something less.

(to be continued…)

hey mr. nix, not your kind of riding weather that night.

i didn't see another bike in 200 miles, none.

Haha! I'm sure you didn't see another bike that night, most people don't ride in hurricane conditions!
I'm enjoying the ride though.

yeah, those old senior citizen riders are tough, battle hardened...too cantankerous to quit.

the whole experience was refreshing, i'm sure you'll keep that in mind the next time we're out in a hurricane.

Wednesday, August 29, 229 miles

I had ridden down to the Catherders campout location on Sunday, glad I did, cool location, and I saw some riders I knew, met some new ones. I had to get back up to Winchester for a birthday party that day, man, if I was late for that one I’'d find the locks changed when I got home. As if I needed a reminder about riding in the rain, I ran into some heavy weather running hard on I81, insane traffic, every bit as bad as I95.

Now I was heading south again, but the back way this time, and would pick up some Blue Ridge Trail roads along the route. I intended to do more riding while up in this area, but business activities had kept me occupied, even if remotely, there’'s no escape these days even if out of the office. I didn’'t have BRT tracks loaded, but the waypoints were still there, the road names easy to remember, figured I would find my way.

Fueled up, then over to 50/17, and I was riding southeast, gorgeous day, gear vents open, dry. I planned to follow the Shenandoah for a ways, turned left on Swift Shoals at the boat landing sign, and I was at the river. The small unimproved landing under the river bridge was where I saw a warden issuing tickets one sunny Sunday afternoon, the miscreants were a couple Mexican guys who had thrown hand lines into the river, small stones for sinkers, still dressed in church clothes, thirty other family members having a post church service picnic in the shade of the bridge. Yup, fishing without a license, I would have handled it differently, discretion and good judgment are not dead, badge or other. The entire group was cowering in front of that uniform, scared to death of the consequences, kids crying. Good job there buddy, a credit to the force, …makeshift hand lines for pete’s sake, chicken skin bait, no fish. Picnic over, they quickly packed up and left.

Past the bridge, the road follows the river under a heavy canopy, no traffic today, sun filtering through the treetops.



The road breaks away from the river to the northwest, now farms, pasture, row crops, and horses, plenty of horses.



Swift Shoals transitions to macadam, and I passed the remnants of an old stone well house along a small creek, long in disuse, the manor house sitting on the hill beyond, the structure predating deep rock drilled wells in the area. A pair of large weeping willows framed the scene, not too unusual, but I hadn'’t seen any this big around here lately.



Swift Shoals intersects Red Gate, I jogged southwest, and then turned northwest onto Bordens Spring, back on gravel. No traffic here either, large old estates mixed with newer homes, a regression in residential design evident. A five acre pond lies close to the road, man, I wish I had one of those, a pastoral postcard look.



I was on the side for a photo, bike running, then decided to shut it down for a minute to get some gear situated. My feathered neighbor was hiding, used to motor noise, but when I shut down the motor, the klaxon sounded, up periscope, he had to take a look, just in case I had bad intentions.



Bordens Spring ran northwest before swinging back southwest where I intersected Sugar Hill, running northwest on pavement before transitioning back to gravel on Featherbed, continuing northwest, then due north. The corn crop in the adjacent fields had failed in this dry summer weather and had been cut, not harvested, the first of many fields I saw just like it. Near 340, there was a John Deere coming at me, bush hogging the shoulder along the ditch, hmmm, I knew what this was all about.



It wasn’t the tractor, it was the men behind it, a work gang of men from the county jail, cutting grass up close to the fence. I idled on by, gave the low peace, mostly acknowledged, some dignity maintained.

(to be continued…)

In.

welcome, more on the way.

South on 340 towards Front Royal, I hadn'’t seen a vehicle on the back roads, now I was in solid urban traffic. Past I66, over the river, missed a turn when I couldn’'t change lanes, and I rode through “downtown” Front Royal, banners up for the annual street dance. Picked a through street that would take me east, and I was back on 340, still south bound.

Skyline Drive, the entrance to the Shenandoah National Park, is on my left, but my turn is Rivermont, just a short distance farther on the right. Make the turn and immediately cross the South Fork of the Shenandoah, a gaggle of road bicycles ahead of me, fortunately they turn south on River Road. More on freakin'’ bicycles later.

Rivermont starts a slow climb out of the valley, paved, but nice, several ponds along here too. Almost every small body of water in Virginia holds resident Canada geese, more every year, hunters don’t shoot enough of them despite very liberal bag limits. They poop about two pounds a day each, you don'’t want a bunch of them in your yard unless you plan on wearing those Muck boots year round. They do keep the grass clipped down low, in one end, out the other. I did find out one interesting fact about these birds, after the first event, they completely ignored industrial size fireworks, the illegal kind straight from China. They seemed ensconced in their own little world, the process sublime …and just kept on pooping. I stopped to shoot a few.



A smooth reflective surface, and I shot this loner in the middle of it too.



Rivermont turned into Mountain along the way, and I was soon up to the old Front Royal Fish Hatchery at Passage Creek. The hatchery must have been a big deal back in the day, it'’s still functioning in some capacity, looks abandoned with pools dry and raceways empty. When I rode in for a photo, some dude came out of the old building and started chasing the rat on foot, sorry mister, ain'’t going to win that one. He stopped when I stopped, looked a little winded as he went back inside, no idea what he wanted, he never caught up, we never spoke.



Passage Creek runs parallel to the hatchery, and is stocked in a one mile section around the hatchery on dates coinciding with national holidays. Fly fishing, not much, worm under a bobber, yeah baby, that and a cooler of beer, Milwaukee’s Best Light, …ain'’t single malt scotch country out this a way.

The creek was low today, had been all year, except for a few heavy rains. It was the same all over this part of Virginia and into West Virginia.



Any fish still found had to be in any remaining pools.



Fort Valley is on the west side of the creek, and at this intersection I turn left, southwest. Fort Valley is an access road into the George Dubya, the George Washington National Forest, paved and twisty.



This spring, a sportbike with passenger had passed me near the Fort Valley intersection going 100mph into the GW, today the same thing, except only about 80. I didn'’t find a wrecked bike in the 25mph zone ahead, I guess they made it.

The Elizabeth Furnace area has a day use park, it was a good day to check it out, nobody else around. A small bridge over the creek, water nice and clear.



Sometimes I see small features on these creeks that look like they could have been built up to create a pool to hold fish, maybe, maybe not, in this case.



The Fort Valley road finally breaks out of the GW park boundary, the country is open now, with pasture and livestock to the southeast. I had run up on my next turn at Boyer, and was riding west, on gravel, back up the mountain.

(to be continued…)

hey nuggets, you should be riding out there.

new installment on the way.