I have been a bit pre-occupied to add to the blog for a while, so let's get up to speed. My time in Charlotte was busy, as I had to get all the camping stuff I could not bring with me on the plane due to size, weight or other restrictions. I had sussed out a chain called Bass Pro Shops, so off I went to the local branch. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The place was the size of Bunnings (Home Depot for you locals) and filled with all manner of goodies. I had to fight with myself not to fill the trolley. I particularly liked the gun section, which took up more space than I thought possible, and where I could have bought an AR15 assault rifle had I wished. The thought occurred to me that the remaining deer, bears, fish and other critters of America don't stand a chance, and anyone you dislike might at best be a 50/50 proposition.
The journey out to the shop consisted of a combination of bus and light rail into the city, then a taxi out to the store and back to the hotel. It cost me less than $2 to go into town using public transport, and $110 for the taxi fares. The good folks at the hotel desk could not tell me how to use public transport, but they were kind enough to call one of their darker hued employees to explain the system. Turned out there was a bus stop right across the street, which nobody knew about. Such is the car culture here. A short wait and I was on a near new bus to the near new metro station & into the city very quickly & comfortably. Reminded me of the time I was the only white guy in sight at a Bob Marley concert in London.
Next came the tricky bit. The bike was waiting for me in Rock Hill, just across the border in South Carolina. I had no option but to use a taxi again, and carry all the riding stuff I needed to bring it back. It all went without a hitch, even getting fuel which is a whole story on its own, but I was pretty nervous all the same about mixing it at 75-80 mph on the interstate and trying to navigate strange surroundings from the opposite side of the road as well. My impression of Charlotte was that the parts I saw were smart, almost too neat and tidy if that makes sense, so I'm not sure if I just got lucky but I really liked what I saw.
So after repacking my luggage for bike mode, & dumping any surplus at the hotel, I headed out onto the Interstates once again. It was time to get the show on the road and do what I came here to do. This time I was heading for Hendersonville, about 3 hours away. About 20 minutes later I was back in Rock Hill, so I knew I had blown it. I had missed my first turn completely! To an outsider, the US system of navigating takes some getting used to. We tend to think in terms of destinations, here it is all route numbers & compass directions. The heirarchy of route numbers is an added complication to the uninitiated. First there are the Interstate Routes, the the National Routes, State Routes and Local Routes, all with their own symbol and route number. Of course these often overlap, so it is common to see a cluster of signs all at once as the various bits converge and diverge again. When you have no idea where you are, let alone which direction you are facing even before you do a few corkscrews at a cloverleaf road junction, its tough. A guy looking for a direction sign to Hendersonville will cluelessly drive right past a forest of signs saying among other thing, lets say US 74 West, to his eventual demise. And if you ask for directions, they might as well be speaking in Klingon. "Khrrr schmigg arrrrghtt 74W thropppscchhdd - what are you, stupid??" I've got it sussed now but Klingon was bloody hard to start with. I'm still working on the roadsigns.
Nevertheless, somehow I managed to get to Hendersonville and to the home of Steve and Vici Linden, good friends of Mike and Tina Valenti back in San Diego. The way this trip has unfolded is really uncanny, but it is essentially bike karma, bikers doing what bikers do for each other, as I'm sure anyone who has read this far will understand. My hosts for the next few days live in a beautiful part of the country, and they pulled out all stops to show me around. I am very grateful for their generosity, so thanks again folks. We got out for a ride on the Blue Ridge Parkway, including the summit of Mt Mitchell and up to the top of Mt Pisgah, with spectacular views across the Appalachians. I could not believe how lush and green the countryside is, and how thick the trees and foliage are, and how different it is from home. We also enjoyed some great eateries & a local craft brewery. Small town America may not get better than this, I reckon. One night the bird feeder on the back porch of the Lindens' house got raided by a pair of young bears, who succeeded in breaking it open for the seed. That's something we don't have to contend with in Adelaide. Rodents the size of a car.
I had another interesting experience when I went for a haircut. Actually when I think about it, getting a haircut on the road is always fun! From the $3 buzz cut with free scalp massage which went on just a little too long in Islamabad, to the shapely babe that destroyed two inches of beard on each side of my face in Cusco while I was busy checking her curves out in the mirror instead of remembering the Spanish word for " trim ". This time I thought I had walked through a portal into the 1940's. There was a sole barber about 100 years old and four other guys about the same age in the line up. This would take a while, assuming it is really a barbershop, and not a wax museum. Still, I'm not in a hurry. I took in the decor- this was your razor strop and hairoil kind of joint for sure. For reading matter I could choose between two copies of the bible, a magazine about rifles and a few about pickup trucks. Religious quotes were attached to the walls. I thought better of asking if they had the latest copy of Sushi Today, Naked Schoolboys or a Koran. I listened to the barber drone on in standard barberspeak to the guy in the chair, his voice barely above a whisper, enquiring about last weekend, the weather, next weekend, the weather, etc. Nobody else said anything. I started to prepare my answers. It took me back to a time when the barber was Mr Burns on Kilkenny Rd, where cigarette smoke hung thick in the air and I had to sit on a plank across the chair to get my head at the right height. That hour or so was worth every cent.
Just before I reluctantly left Hendersonville, I got a call from Brian Cullinan. He and Val, Bjoern and Sigrid were just 20 miles away in Asheville, having ridden all the way from the start of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I rocked up at their motel shortly thereafter to catch up and compare notes. Even though none of us had been away from home for long, it was great to see them right here in the US of A after all the dialogue of the past year or so. They had set up their bikes really well for the adventures ahead.
So we headed off in the same direction before reconvening that night at the same motel in Bryson City, where it was drinkies and dinner in a local Italian restaurant. The following morning we would head to Deals Gap and ride the infamous Tail of the Dragon together, with all of its 318 curves in 11 miles.
The Dragon starts on the North Carolina border and runs downhill into Tennessee, and there were dozens if not hundreds of bikes everywhere. Squid central, for sure.That's local speak for hoonville. Down at the bottom, I thought it was hyped up out of all proportion. I thought my ride the previous day to Gatlinburg and back through the centre of the Great Smokey Mountains National Park was a far superior ride, and even the road into Deals Gap from Bryson was more enjoyable. There you go, but the legend is good for business. I suspect the reality is that a lot of guys come to ride the Dragon, but a lot of others come to enjoy the superb riding the region has to offer generally. Sure the Dragon is a nice fun ride, but there is a 30 mph speed limit on it, & there were cops at the top and worse, more cops at the bottom where you can't help cracking on the throttle when the road finally straightens out. Plus, we were all fully loaded up with travel gear. As it happened, Brian got pinged for doing about 41mph in a 30 zone, but fortunately the cop let him off when he saw how much work was involved in getting his registration papers out of his luggage, or I would hope rather when he realised he hadn't caught a hoon on a sports bike out to break the record or die in the attempt, but just a victim of gravity. Our plan is to reconvene in Flagstaff AZ on 18 May, if not before, now that communication has been established. OK, Tennessee is next.
The journey out to the shop consisted of a combination of bus and light rail into the city, then a taxi out to the store and back to the hotel. It cost me less than $2 to go into town using public transport, and $110 for the taxi fares. The good folks at the hotel desk could not tell me how to use public transport, but they were kind enough to call one of their darker hued employees to explain the system. Turned out there was a bus stop right across the street, which nobody knew about. Such is the car culture here. A short wait and I was on a near new bus to the near new metro station & into the city very quickly & comfortably. Reminded me of the time I was the only white guy in sight at a Bob Marley concert in London.
Next came the tricky bit. The bike was waiting for me in Rock Hill, just across the border in South Carolina. I had no option but to use a taxi again, and carry all the riding stuff I needed to bring it back. It all went without a hitch, even getting fuel which is a whole story on its own, but I was pretty nervous all the same about mixing it at 75-80 mph on the interstate and trying to navigate strange surroundings from the opposite side of the road as well. My impression of Charlotte was that the parts I saw were smart, almost too neat and tidy if that makes sense, so I'm not sure if I just got lucky but I really liked what I saw.
So after repacking my luggage for bike mode, & dumping any surplus at the hotel, I headed out onto the Interstates once again. It was time to get the show on the road and do what I came here to do. This time I was heading for Hendersonville, about 3 hours away. About 20 minutes later I was back in Rock Hill, so I knew I had blown it. I had missed my first turn completely! To an outsider, the US system of navigating takes some getting used to. We tend to think in terms of destinations, here it is all route numbers & compass directions. The heirarchy of route numbers is an added complication to the uninitiated. First there are the Interstate Routes, the the National Routes, State Routes and Local Routes, all with their own symbol and route number. Of course these often overlap, so it is common to see a cluster of signs all at once as the various bits converge and diverge again. When you have no idea where you are, let alone which direction you are facing even before you do a few corkscrews at a cloverleaf road junction, its tough. A guy looking for a direction sign to Hendersonville will cluelessly drive right past a forest of signs saying among other thing, lets say US 74 West, to his eventual demise. And if you ask for directions, they might as well be speaking in Klingon. "Khrrr schmigg arrrrghtt 74W thropppscchhdd - what are you, stupid??" I've got it sussed now but Klingon was bloody hard to start with. I'm still working on the roadsigns.
Nevertheless, somehow I managed to get to Hendersonville and to the home of Steve and Vici Linden, good friends of Mike and Tina Valenti back in San Diego. The way this trip has unfolded is really uncanny, but it is essentially bike karma, bikers doing what bikers do for each other, as I'm sure anyone who has read this far will understand. My hosts for the next few days live in a beautiful part of the country, and they pulled out all stops to show me around. I am very grateful for their generosity, so thanks again folks. We got out for a ride on the Blue Ridge Parkway, including the summit of Mt Mitchell and up to the top of Mt Pisgah, with spectacular views across the Appalachians. I could not believe how lush and green the countryside is, and how thick the trees and foliage are, and how different it is from home. We also enjoyed some great eateries & a local craft brewery. Small town America may not get better than this, I reckon. One night the bird feeder on the back porch of the Lindens' house got raided by a pair of young bears, who succeeded in breaking it open for the seed. That's something we don't have to contend with in Adelaide. Rodents the size of a car.
I had another interesting experience when I went for a haircut. Actually when I think about it, getting a haircut on the road is always fun! From the $3 buzz cut with free scalp massage which went on just a little too long in Islamabad, to the shapely babe that destroyed two inches of beard on each side of my face in Cusco while I was busy checking her curves out in the mirror instead of remembering the Spanish word for " trim ". This time I thought I had walked through a portal into the 1940's. There was a sole barber about 100 years old and four other guys about the same age in the line up. This would take a while, assuming it is really a barbershop, and not a wax museum. Still, I'm not in a hurry. I took in the decor- this was your razor strop and hairoil kind of joint for sure. For reading matter I could choose between two copies of the bible, a magazine about rifles and a few about pickup trucks. Religious quotes were attached to the walls. I thought better of asking if they had the latest copy of Sushi Today, Naked Schoolboys or a Koran. I listened to the barber drone on in standard barberspeak to the guy in the chair, his voice barely above a whisper, enquiring about last weekend, the weather, next weekend, the weather, etc. Nobody else said anything. I started to prepare my answers. It took me back to a time when the barber was Mr Burns on Kilkenny Rd, where cigarette smoke hung thick in the air and I had to sit on a plank across the chair to get my head at the right height. That hour or so was worth every cent.
Just before I reluctantly left Hendersonville, I got a call from Brian Cullinan. He and Val, Bjoern and Sigrid were just 20 miles away in Asheville, having ridden all the way from the start of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I rocked up at their motel shortly thereafter to catch up and compare notes. Even though none of us had been away from home for long, it was great to see them right here in the US of A after all the dialogue of the past year or so. They had set up their bikes really well for the adventures ahead.
So we headed off in the same direction before reconvening that night at the same motel in Bryson City, where it was drinkies and dinner in a local Italian restaurant. The following morning we would head to Deals Gap and ride the infamous Tail of the Dragon together, with all of its 318 curves in 11 miles.
The Dragon starts on the North Carolina border and runs downhill into Tennessee, and there were dozens if not hundreds of bikes everywhere. Squid central, for sure.That's local speak for hoonville. Down at the bottom, I thought it was hyped up out of all proportion. I thought my ride the previous day to Gatlinburg and back through the centre of the Great Smokey Mountains National Park was a far superior ride, and even the road into Deals Gap from Bryson was more enjoyable. There you go, but the legend is good for business. I suspect the reality is that a lot of guys come to ride the Dragon, but a lot of others come to enjoy the superb riding the region has to offer generally. Sure the Dragon is a nice fun ride, but there is a 30 mph speed limit on it, & there were cops at the top and worse, more cops at the bottom where you can't help cracking on the throttle when the road finally straightens out. Plus, we were all fully loaded up with travel gear. As it happened, Brian got pinged for doing about 41mph in a 30 zone, but fortunately the cop let him off when he saw how much work was involved in getting his registration papers out of his luggage, or I would hope rather when he realised he hadn't caught a hoon on a sports bike out to break the record or die in the attempt, but just a victim of gravity. Our plan is to reconvene in Flagstaff AZ on 18 May, if not before, now that communication has been established. OK, Tennessee is next.
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