Leaving is always bittersweet. After a few days on the road you always want to get home and see your family. But there's also that twinge of regret that the trip is over.
But I push those thoughts aside as we walk outside the diner. With a good breakfast under our belts, we have the better part of a day's ride still in front of us. There remains much to look forward to.
Glancing at the sky, I make note of the broken cloud cover. The soft overcast is welcome. That will temper the heat later in the day. More importantly, it will provide good visibility into the turns.
"How's your tire doing?" I ask Rasmus.
"Fine," he replies. "Still holding at thirty-nine pounds."
I nod in satisfaction. We had pulled the roofing nail yesterday morning and the plug had held all through the long day of riding. He'll get home just fine.
Suiting up, I glance around the small West Virginia town one last time. It'll be three months before we'll be back. Turning back to Kevin, Clyde and Rasmus, we shake hands.
"Have a safe ride back."
They'll be turning off a handful of miles down the road, heading south to their homes in North Carolina while I continue on east, alone, into Virginia.
Rolling, I fall in behind them. Our pace is relaxed and for ten minutes my mind wanders, as our southeast route tracks through this country that I love. Thinking about the few days of riding that we just enjoyed. Thinking about home. Thinking about work tomorrow. Mostly, thinking about the mountain that lies ahead.
At the turnoff Kevin looks back and salutes. I point at him.
The descent begins right after that. I accelerate into the first hard turn, only to have to slow as I come upon a slow moving pickup truck. I abide that inconvenience until halfway down the mountain, when the short straight exiting the 10-mph horseshoe gives me the opportunity for a pass.
At the bottom I pass the tiny general store, the church, the firehouse, and the dozen-odd homes comprising the picturesque little village of Valley Grove. The two faded gas pumps at the store remind me of the late summer afternoon I drifted in there on fumes many years ago. It's funny how, over time, we lay little bits of memory here and there across the landscape, like Easter eggs.
Running along the creek, my mind begins to bear down, my focus narrowing. The mountain I've idly been considering since we left breakfast is just ahead. It's one of the best mountain passes in Virginia. Thinking about it prompts that old anticipatory tickle in my gut. It's where things get serious.
With expectation hanging in the air, the throttle spools under my hand-an almost involuntary response-as my boots slide back on the pegs.
Passing the turnoff down into the draft-just a handful of miles from the camp where I hunt-I do a quick calculus of the likelihood of encountering deer. It's higher than I like. I toy with that thought for a brief second before putting it aside. I'm not going to not do this.
Over the bridge and across the creek and the ascent begins. The road tracks at a flat, upward angle for the first two hundred feet, then breaks hard left into the esses which climb the mountain. My blood up, I hold steady on the throttle.
Like a downhill-rolling snowball slowly gathering strength, I can sense the increasing flow of energy around me. The first corner is a moderate-speed turn-30mph is painted on the yellow caution sign. It comes like a softly lobbed toss from a lazy pitcher. The line is obvious and the bike hews to it with precision. I feel the same odd thrill I always get when first hitting a string of corners at speed.
The next handful of corners are similar. Easy, with steady radii that make for classic lines from entrance to exit. They act as a prologue, giving the bike and I a bit of time to get wired together, to be ready for the harder stuff just ahead.