I'm up at 4:30am, the darkness amplifying the mystery of the day to come. I'm glad for the hours of riding that lie in front of me, for sure. But the tinge of excitement that normally accompanies an impending trip is missing. So is the mild sense of urgency that usually prompts a hurried packing of my gear. I put the pot of coffee on and take a slow, leisurely shower.
Turning on the computer, I spend a few minutes scanning emails and checking responses from the search agents I've got working. Nothing.
After my second cup of coffee I finally rise and head outside. It doesn't take long to pack the bike. And by 6:00 a.m. I'm finally rolling.
The weather gods are smiling. Sunshine, brightly clear, low humidity, highs near 80. It looks promising for the boys over at least the next couple of days. It's hard to take a 5-day motorcycle trip and not run into some rain, somewhere. But it's always nice when at least the first few days are sunny and nice.
It's a little chilly at the moment—43 degrees—and my hands are cold even with my Olympia 3-season gloves and the heated grips on the BMW working away. But I'm fine otherwise. The heated liner under my Aerostich is providing its usual magic.
Heading out Route 211, I try to think of the last time I left early on a morning, with the whole day in front of me. Seems like it's been awhile.
Dawn is already well up and as the road slowly rocks back and forth, my shadow dances along in front of me. What was it I had written years ago? "…chasing my shadow towards Thornton Gap." That's a really cool way to start the day.
Even with everything else going on—maybe because of it—I'm suddenly glad to be out on the road. Especially since I almost decided not to. Something about that 4:30 a.m. wake-up call.
There's a temperature inversion as I roll up the mountain at Thornton Gap, and again crossing the Alleghenies just east of New Market. Rising on the ascent both times, the chill quickly evaporates, replaced by a suffusing, warm glow. My hands quickly warm.
An hour and a half later I'm in Staunton. After gassing up, I roll up to the Comfort Inn to find Mark and Barton already suited up and on the side of the road, waiting for the rest of the group. Five minutes more and I'd have missed them. Seeds and some of the others are getting breakfast. And Earle has already left, leading another group on a circuitous, westward swing through West Virginia. His ambitious route will encompass over 500 select miles on the way towards Little Switzerland.
After quick greetings—Mark, Barton, Lew, Eric, Andy, Mike, and a friend of Lew's are in this little contingent—we roll quickly to Afton Mountain and the Blue Ridge Parkway. The morning chill is gone and there is almost no traffic on the Parkway. Absolutely perfect. Our pace is normal for our little group —70-80 mph—and few things have ever felt so right. I just love this road. And one couldn't ask for more than this great group of talented riders to enjoy it with. The pace is just enough to get my blood up a bit, and the devil on my shoulder is nattering at me. But I hang back in the middle of the pack, as I mostly do anymore, and that helps.
A hundred and fifteen miles later we roll down out of the mountains. After gassing up, I decide that this will be my turnaround point. I say my reluctant farewells, and as the group continues on south I turn back north to re-run the Parkway in the other direction.
I'm still in that glow of riding. That golden place where everything feels just right. The place where one's world, for a little while, has no worries. With the clear skies and low humidity, the scenery along both sides of the mountains is just breathtaking. I notice it with quick glances as I fly north at a steady 70 mph and know that I should stop and take some pictures. But I don't. The place I'm in is a gift, a drug I'm loath to let go of, for even a few moments. So I keep riding.
That little ride was in the spring of 2002. I didn't know it at the time, but I was six months into what would eventually turn into a fifteen-month stretch of unemployment. You like to think that such an experience is an outlier, a statistical footnote you hear about on the news. Usually it is.