Back roads

I am watching Charmed.  After all these years, it is my go-to guilty pleasure when it comes to tv. Not only am I awake at 7 to watch Aaron Spelling's homage to boobs and combat boots, but I have been up since 5.  After all, how else might I squeeze every minute out of my vacation?

Our packing had been delayed by a Tolliver nap (cats can't resist an open suitcase), but eventually we gathered all our things.  I, of course, overpacked, the back of the CRV crammed to the hilt with clothes for every occasion, shoes to match, food (don't forget the chocolate bunnies!), books, electronics.  We were expected to be gone about 48 hours.  Bill, on the other hand, packed two pairs of socks and boxers, two shirts, and trunks for the hot tub.  How reasonable of him!

Leaving also means extensive instructions for the pet sitter.  Two pages of details about the kittens and cats, their likes and preferences, how much to feed them and when.   I laughed when after many paragraphs, the dog instructions were simply, "throw some food in Eddie's bowl."  I am cat all the way.  Bill is dog.  As it should be.

We both had to work, so it was almost 4 when we headed out.  The highway route is about two and a half hours to Charlotte, our ultimate destination, but the back roads are so much more interesting, so off we went, through Chapel Hill to Old Greensboro Road, to 49, which would take us all the way to the hotel.  We were sad to be in a car, but this year's cold, wet spring meant no motorcycles yet.  We will definitely retrace this route, though, because it was some beautiful riding.

But spring it definitely is, as we passed farm fields filled with babies.  The itsy bitsy cow sticking his head out of the fence to eat the grass by the road, the hop hop hopping goats.  My favorite was the teeny tiny goat, all spindly legs and shaky knees, who climbed up on his reclining mother to a triumphant stance, king of the hill!  The mom goat just lay there, with her baby standing tall, his tiny hooves on her belly much like my cats sit on me for that early morning lovin'.

Bill is some sort of turkey whisperer and often when we are traveling, he will suddenly shout, "Did your see that???" and I never do, and he'll shake his head sadly that I missed the turkeys in the field.  One time we were on bikes, and he pulled over unexpectedly.  "Did you see that?"  I had missed it completely so we doubled back. He pointed to a long shallow field by the road.  "See?"  I saw nothing.  I stared.  I sought.  He started freaking out.  "Right there!"  Finally, my eagerness and anxiety in full swing, I saw them. Turkeys!  A bunch of them!  How DID I miss them?

For this trip, we again passed a shallow field that ran the length of a stretch of road.  Bill pointed. And there, on the edge by the trees, a turkey.  Gobble gobble!  Finally my turkey goggles are working!

We rolled through the gorgeous North Carolina scenery, still brown and desolate from our unusually wet and long winter.  A few weeping cherries brightened our path, but mostly the woods were still brown and damp.  We passed a Pentacostal church with the simple marquee, "God is awesome."  In Asheboro, we passed the classically Carolinian "Guns and Gold" store.

We passed beautiful farm houses with gorgeous outbuildings, triggering my outbuilding envy and discussions of "when we win the lottery."  In spite of all the stories to the contrary, we are sure the money won't change us.  And with our winnings, we would of course take care of our friends as well.  See?  The money won't change us.

We passed a junkyard of exclusively old cars--acres of fins, grills, enormous steel hoods, and trunks big enough to hold today's cars inside. Most of them rusting, forlorn.  Ford coups, Old Willys coups, Buicks, and the like, stretched out along the roadway, a monument to the glory days of the auto industry.  

Eventually we pulled into the Embassy Suites where we were greeted by a lovely fountain with fake ancient ruins.  The manager's reception offers a full open bar--potentially a great thing if only Bill or I drank alcohol.  The steak dinner at the hotel restaurant was exquisite and our waiter a lot of fun.  Totally worth the mortgage payment we forked over when it was all done.

Today will take us to the NASCAR Hall of Fame, which promises to be yet another bastion of redneck delights. We are also hoping to find a salvage/repurposing center in case the Charlotte crowd throws away better stuff than Durham.

We love our state!

One man's Heaven

It was a redneck heaven, plain and simple.  Which made it hell for me.

It was a gift.  For my amazing husband, who has been so very sweet since the wedding, and whose life story means he rarely got to enjoy the simple, American pleasures most of us take for granted. 

He had worked that morning, not unusual for a Saturday, but still not ideal.  We had ridden our motorcycles in the afternoon, through a nearby town, enjoying the sort-of-country-and-sort-of-suburbs of it all, the March crosswind rattling us around a little bit.  And then in the evening, we met up with friends, drove to the PNC center, where our local hockey team—the Hurricanes—has been winning games, making friends and wooing Triangle fans.  But tonight the ice was hidden—no sign of it in sight.  Instead, we were greeted by a bare dirt floor, tarps draped across the first eight rows of seating, and crushed cars arranged in a pattern in the center.  This, ladies and gentlemen, was no hockey game.  This was MONSTER JAM 2013!!!

The ultimate American experience.  I had no idea it was such an American experience, until I was there, and the Monster Jam announcer kept telling me.  It's always good to have these things clarified.

We watched as the four-wheeler teams—North Carolina vs. South Carolina—warmed up, zinging their open-bodied, four-wheeled vehicles around the track.  We listened to the emcee interviewing the "captains" of the two teams, and thought of wrestling matches, the way they have over-the-top villains and heroes.  Totally ridiculous.  But then, it happened.  The emcee's voice shifted in tone—it was time to start the event.

He had been engaging the crowd—barely a third of the arena—during warm-up, and now he came out and talked about America, about pride, and about patriotism.  He had members of the armed forces stand up, listing each branch of our military, and then veterans.  And then he called on firefighters, police officers, doctors, and EMTs.  He did not, of course, mention nurses, teachers, or social workers, but I'm sure he meant to.  But he had them all stand and the crowd applauded, and I did too, because cheesy or not, I am indeed happy to honor those who serve our communities.  And while we applauded, his speech dropped off, and the music turned up.  "Proud to be an American" came loud and strong through the arena.  (Thank the gods for good sound technology as we could actually hear and understand everything said that night.)  And as I sat at the PNC Arena, and "Proud to be an American" floated dulcetly through the air, the jumbotrons in the center of the space showed pictures of the American flag, images of patriotism, and, yep—there it is—MONSTER TRUCKS POPPING WHEELIES and jumping and smashing cars.  Monster trucks getting great air and BAM! dropping on CARS.  PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN, people, where you can SMASH cars, and pop WHEELIES, and dammit!  This is MONSTER JAAAAAAAMMMMM!!!!!!

And so went the evening, with loud pumping music, crazyloud vehicles tearing apart the space and crunching metal, and the crowd screaming loud and proud.  At one point, Matel toys arranged a major give-away event to a lucky fan.  The spotlight found a cute cute kid in the crowd, and the emcee made his way over.  He promised he would give the child as many toys in the bag as the crowd cheered for, and so then there was pressure—we had to scream or the kid wouldn't get any toys.  And so there we were, cheering for the little guy so he could get every toy in the bag!!  We cheered and screamed—and why?? Really.  We were a quarter-mile away, but still, we screamed and joined the sounds of the cheering crowd, all to make sure the little boy got his remote-controlled, car-smashing, stone-climbing bit of America.

I do have to say that I really love the monster trucks.  The sound is unbelievable, and the over-the-top craziness of it is hilarious.  The tires are enormous, and the engines whine so loud, you can feel your cochleae shattering and your cilia shriveling such that you'll never hear again. 

And then.  After intermission.  It was here.  Lowered from the ceiling.  Settled carefully on the ground.  Here it was.  I'd seen commercials for it since I was a child.  And now, in front of me, unbelievably, I would see it live and in person.

The Sphere of Fear.

The steal bubble cage, into which one can ride a motorcycle, and, if one is skilled enough and talented enough, and has balls big enough, one can ride the interior of the sphere and achieve the impossible—ride upside down. 

And the announcer made a big fuss about this Sphere of Fear, and he told us—and this part was very important—the motorcycle in the Sphere of Fear is fueled by our cheering!  We must cheer loudly to keep the motorcycle operating safely in the Sphere of Fear.  And then the very daring Mr. Flores came out to the arena, he zoomed his motorcycle into the Sphere of Fear, and then he was locked in it.  Locked in!!  This was very important to the announcer, who said it many times—Mr. Flores was locked in the Sphere of Fear.  But really, they just shut the big metal door, and now it was a true sphere (of fear!) and the daring Mr. Flores could zoom zoom zoom his motorcycle in big circles, first sideways and then—and ladies and gentlemen, this is really amazing—upside down!!  But this is not all!!  Soon there were flames shooting up from the center!  Mr. Flores was inside the Sphere of Fear, and there were flames!!!

And then the daring Mr. Flores exited the Sphere of Fear and was safely, once again, on the dirt floor of the arena.  Imagine our surprise, then, when his beautiful, 15-year-old daughter rode her motorcycle into the arena, and then…  then…  into the Sphere of Fear!!  She also got locked in, rode in swooping circles, with her one hand waving us on to cheer her, and then… and then… upside down!!! 

But wait!!  What is that little motorcycle there?  Is it?  Could it be?  Yes!  This is Mr. Flores' son!  He is only ten years old!  He is the youngest motorcycle rider to ride in the Sphere of Fear!  He is only ten!  He also got locked in to the Sphere of Fear and rode in swooping circles, first sideways, and then upside down!!!

After much hoopla and cheering – to fuel the ride – the entire family was in the Sphere of Fear, and the whole thing was on fire, and it was cool, fueled by our cheering.

But the best part was definitely the end of the evening, when the monster trucks engaged in their freestyle "competition."  There are "judges" and the competition is "scored," much like wrestling, which you can imagine, is a major eye roll for me.  However, I do have to say, it's fun to watch the trucks express personality—and they really do!—as they smash cars up.  I mean, what's not to like????

Seriously.  I loved it.  And we're so going back next year!!!

I Have Staff

I feel very Downton Abbey when I am roused at 9 a.m. on the Sunday after the time change by the people I have hired to work in the yard.

Brian is also a very good friend, and as is the custom around here, he let himself in. Eddie's barking had long-since alerted us to his presence so at least I was decently covered with jammies when the door opened.

But of course it meant I was to get dressed and join the conversation outside. It was 33 degrees, so I had to fix my hair to accommodate a hat, and then I stood, listening as the menfolk talked.

My presence was totally unnecessary. This is a job that is weeks in the works, and the specs of which have been clear for longer than that. Move the six ENORMOUS truckloads of mulch from the front of the house to the back. Spread it around.

Brian is the perfect kind of worker, and we have a great thing going here. I have a never-ending to-do list of house projects, and Brian comes whenever he is free to work on them. I don't have to be here--he brings his own tools, knows where our things are should he need them, and cleans up after himself. You would hardly know he's been here, except that the work gets done. We have an agreement on the number of hours every month, so he can count on the income, and we can count on the work. For big jobs like this one, we pay as we go.

It's a perfect arrangement.  Everyone should have a Brian.

Except when you're trying to live in denial of the time change and it's 33 degrees out.

I am reminded of the scene in Downton Abbey when the maid comes in to open the curtains, waking Lady Mary and her new husband. The maid has been up for hours at this point, having prepared the house for waking habitation. Mary and Matthew chat happily, not the least but concerned that they have been slothful.

I, on the other hand, realize that Brian and his coworker have been up long enough to waken, get dressed, (I hope) eat breakfast, and I see from thermoses set on the rocks, prepare coffee. Not to mention the 30-minute drive to get here.

Sloth is one of the seven deadly sins, isn't it?

And so I busy myself. I move the cut wood (cut by Brian, of course, while I was out to dinner with friends earlier this week) to the pile; I half-heartedly rake out the piles of mulch, knowing Brian will come behind me and do a better job; I consider the difficulty of winning the lottery; and could I possibly pay someone to cook for me without feeling gluttonous (deadly sin number two)?

I suppose it's a good thing I am not rich. Perhaps some of us really are born of "peasant stock" (as my father used to call it), driven to work--or at least pretend to.  And for those of you wondering, yes, I am using reverse psychology on the lottery fates and not the least bit worried that winning will "change me."

Come on, big money!!!

90 Minutes Around the Bend

It's winter time.  We're lucky here; at times throughout the winter, we are treated to beautiful days of sunshine and mild temperatures.  Although there are days at a time when it's quite cold, and we have our share of wind, rain and even sometimes snow and ice, we often find ourselves outside for many days throughout winter.  I used to garage the motorcycle at a friend's house, but I have since learned that we can ride at least once or twice every month of the year.  As much as February is my least-favorite month, it's in February when I am most grateful for my decision to move to North Carolina because truly, beautiful weather is just around the corner.

So here we are, the last weekend of the dreariest month, and we've had rain and ice for many days, leaving our yard a slog of mud and swamp.   Even the simplest tasks are crappy that way.  Taking out the compost is a slip-slide smear-fest that tears up the grass, soaks your shoes, and dampens the cuffs on your jeans.  The animals leave paw prints everywhere, and the standing water that pools in low spots is depressing and a harbinger of dead grass, mosquitoes, and the steamy summer sure to come.

You can imagine, then, the relief of the weather report calling for 65-degree sunshine.  And on a weekend, no less!!

We had had a busy Saturday—up early to take the snake to the vet, along with an emotional roller coaster that was "we might have to put the snake down right here right now" all the way to "a total clean bill of health and keep up the good work!" in the span of 30 minutes.  Then a busy afternoon of fun social obligations and then a black tie fundraiser that had us dressed up and dancing (in fancy footwear, both of us—ouch!) into the night.

So Sunday dawned sunny and bright, and we threw the covers over our heads and rolled over, the sound of thunder paws from our now-four-cat household providing a joyous soundtrack to our extended snooze.

Eventually, though, we roused, blinking in the sun, old creatures feeling every muscle and joint.  Oh, so craggy and ancient!  But we fed ourselves, caffeinated ourselves, kissed the furry ones, and headed off to the gently curving roads and lakeside views we love so much around here.

With Bill’s bike in the shop, our only option was for me to ride bitch, which gave me plenty of time to look at the houses and dream of retirement, when I plan to live in an old white, wood home with a few acres around me, cats and an herb garden.  My favorite are houses that are tall in front—plantation style, I guess they call it.  And then only one story of rambling rooms in the back.  You can imagine the builders designing a lovely two-story home, perfect for the time, and then the subsequent families adding a room at a time.  I love how those kinds of homes have rooms with several doors and you can walk several different paths through the house, passing through bedrooms and drawing rooms.  I don’t really understand the allure of a hallway, with so much wasted space. 

I have a love of outbuildings.  I’ve watched enough American Pickers to know that most of those outbuildings house rusting, worthless collections of crap the homeowner just couldn’t bear to part with, but I like to imagine the studio or old-style apothecary or just a private retreat I would have in the outbuildings of my home.  I envied sheds for a long time—a place to put your mower!  Your tools!!  A neatly organized home for paintbrushes and screwdrivers, the chain saw and your loppers.  I have a shed now, and I love to walk in it, see all my stuff—the mark of a true home-owner and kindasorta handy woman—tools. 

And of course, I love the porches.  The big 15-footers that wrap languidly around the whole house.  Or even the 8-footers that house neat row of rocking chairs to the right of the always-red front door.  Oh, the things I would do with a grand front porch.  Never mind the mosquitos or the humidity or the choking pollen.  If I had a huge porch, I would have parties of people, dressed in linen finery, sipping on mint juleps, the laughter ringing into the night…

And oh, the houses with the benches out front!!  Where I would sit in the morning, sipping my coffee, letting the sunlight bring my brain to awareness, rather than the light of Facebook on my iPhone. 

And so we passed our 90 minutes, with Bill in charge, and my mind free to wander through rural Triangle life.  We eventually pulled up to our house, which I have painted myself, and I celebrate in its simplicity.  I love its gentle, cabin-y feel, and I like its dark brown, calming, welcoming feel.  I chose to ignore the enormous piles of mulch and dead grass, and focus instead on the mint juleps I will sip on my front porch when it’s all done.

A gazillion shades of green

There are no words, no pictures, no way to possibly describe how beautiful the Pisgah National Forest and the Blue Ridge Parkway are in the rain.

We had spent the morning at MR Motorcycle getting the tire replaced. The rain had poured down in sheets as we rode to the shop, and while they worked on the bike, Bill took off his boots and poured the water out. He replaced them, and a few minutes later, had to do it again. This time he wrung out his socks, which couldn't have been wetter if we'd gone swimming in a lake. We were absolutely drenched. We had stopped often on the trip, going into coffee shops and other places to get warm. But in July in North Carolina, raining or not, everyone had on their air conditioning, so we were better off outside.

So we sat on the bench outside the shop, covered at least by the eaves of the building, and waited. While we sat, though, we could see blue skies to the left, and it appeared the weather for the day would improve. We excitedly planned our afternoon--the Pisgah National Forest and some of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and on to Maggie Valley Bikewear to thank them for their help yesterday and to eat at Chris-the-tow-truck-driver's parents' restaurant. From there we were going to go to Cherokee before heading back to the inn.

Soon enough, the sun came out fully, the parking lot dried up, and we were going to have a beautiful day. I was getting a safe, new tire, the sun was shining, all was good. Neil came out to say, "He's balancing up your tire now. Shouldn't be too long and you'll be on your way." And as we waited for those finishing touches, we watched the clouds roll in, the sky blacken, and the rain started again.

By the time we pulled out of the shop parking lot, the rain came down steadily, and we pulled into Asheville traffic and headed off to the Parkway. I was breaking in a new tire, and when they handed the bike back to me, there was a bright yellow piece of paper attached to the key that said, "We have installed a new tire. Drive gently for 100 miles, taking extra care at turns and when stopping. We recommend EXTREME CAUTION," with those last two words in a much larger font and all caps. Hello, people, we're in Asheville. It's all turning and stopping.

We swung on to the Blue Ridge Parkway, and I drove gingerly and gently around turns. It's actually perfect, with the 45 mph limit, and on a Friday in the rain, there were hardly any other cars. The motorcyclists, relatively few though there were, were very friendly, with enthusiastic waving and beeping as we drove past. We made a wrong turn at one point and found ourselves on a much more challenging downhill, with tight tight curves, and lush greenery right up against the road. The mists and the rain brought out the gazillion shades of green, and the wet wood made for a higher contrast in the browns, blacks, and grays of stems and trunks. We stopped at a narrow waterfall where a stream fell through the thick vegetation and traveled under the road, flowing straight in spite of the essing turns of the pavement. We looked up through the fog at enormous trees stretching tall and straight over head. We marveled at the many shades of green, more than I could have believed.

I love to think of how people lived, how these roads and paths were originally cut on foot, and then eventually horseback. How people before us might have first happened on these lands, seen the beautiful forest undisturbed. The Witch in me feels the energy in the trees, the resonance in the rocks, the strength in the habitat. It was beautiful and moving and spiritual and amazing. The sound of the rain on every leaf, the stream's trickle, the pavement's tick as the rain bounced off... There is no way to describe how beautiful it was.

We realized our mistake (thank you iPhone maps app!!) and turned back up the hill. For me, I am much more at ease traveling up hill, and I felt confident tilting the bike, swooshing around curves, pulling ourselves up the wrong-turn road and back onto the Parkway.

We had a similar experience coming out of Cherokee many hours later when a wrong turn sent us through a wooded area with a large stream/nearly a river on our right. The greens were an intense contrast against the brown and bubbling water, and the road bent and curved alongside the flow, with trees bent over, creating a tunnel of green. Again, we rode on for some time before turning back into Cherokee to find the right road.

We had also been to Maggie Valley to thank the bikewear folks -- I introduced myself as "yesterday's damsel." They were incredibly sweet, and we promised to return. Please be sure to stop by and give them your business any time you find yourself in Maggie Valley.

Cherokee was also fascinating, and we promised ourselves we would return when we had time to stay for several days to soak up all that the town had to offer. This was the end of the relaxing part of our journey. Our tomorrow would be an early rise, packing, checking out, and then many, many hours of riding back to Durham. I knew we would be beat by the time we got back. Rest was much needed, and we looked forward to a soak in the deep, claw-footed tub in our room.

Andrew's Geyser

When you are afraid of everything, you have to make a decision about how you're going to live with fear in your life.  The easy thing might be to avoid the things that make you scared.  But if you're truly always afraid, then you won't be doing much. 

The alternative, of course, is to carry fear around with you, like an extra appendage.  Do the things you would normally do, with the weight of the fear getting in the way or getting cumbersome at times, but acknowledging that it's there and it's not going anywhere.

I'm lucky, I guess, that I became afraid at a very young age, so I never realized that extra appendage wasn't meant to be there.  Like a cat's relationship with its tail, it never occurred to me it should slow me down.

So when we were looking at google maps in preparation for this trip, and we saw Mill Creek Road that essed with insanely tight turns up the mountain, and when we zoomed the satellite view in and couldn't tell if it was paved, when we were looking that over, and I was thinking, "I don't know if I'm skilled enough to do this," what I said out loud was, "Even if it's not paved, let's give it a try.  Worst case--we turn around and find a different route." 

So Bill and I packed up our now-dry clothes Thursday morning, enjoyed the complimentary Marriott breakfast, and set off.  It was still raining, but we were warm enough, and traveled through Wilkesboro and Lenoir.  After a bit we stopped at a grocery store with a coffee shop and were able to get a mocha.  I texted friends, "Sweet weepin' Jesus, we found a Starbucks!"  We were wet (have I mentioned it was raining?) and tired.  But even through all that, I realized, I was also having a wonderful time.  If you know me, you know I'm a total wuss about weather, but this trip has taught me how magnificent things can be, even in the rain.

And soon, we arrived at the most challenging part of our journey.  Mill Creek Road, off State Road 1400, past Andrew's Geyser.  When we reached the turn-off, Bill pulled over on the side of the road and stretched his legs.  "This is it," he said.  "Get ready."  I got off as well, and we took off our helmets, scratched our heads, got the blood pumping throughout our numb and tingling extremities.  From where we sat we could see paved road.  We kept our fingers crossed.

After a few minutes' rest, we geared back up, swung our legs in the saddles, and headed off.  Here the forest creeps onto the road, with the underbrush coming right up to the road itself.  It's about a lane and a half wide, and within a hundred yards or so, we were on gravel.  Hard packed, but again, raining.  The gravel was muddy and slick.  Near the inside of turns, the gravel had been washed out by rain, creating that washboard effect.  We climbed slowly up the hill, twisting and turning, using the entire lane to maximize our traction on the wet gravel.  I remembered watching the Long Way Down when Ewan (hi Ewan, hottie!) and Charlie Boorman were slogging through ridiculously difficult conditions.  They would fall and just get up and keep going.  I tried to keep that in mind.  At these speeds, falling would be an inconvenience and could damage the bike, but I would not get hurt.  Thoughts of my own perfectionism had to be banished, and knowing when it was done, we would have accomplished it--that's what I focused on.  I also missed my Nighthawk and Bill's Vstrom, bikes that are designed for this kind of travel.  Our cruisers were truly tested by this, as the center of gravity is low and our feet stretched out in front of us prevent the maneuvering you really need to really do this right.  We had to muscle our handle bars to get around the turns, and at times the washboarding effect covered the entire road, creating a bumpy up and down as we went. 

The forest and underbrush were thick here, and the road narrowed.  We passed a sign that said, "Single lane ahead--sound your horn," and Bill started beeping.  We came upon a one-lane pass that was covered (like a tunnel) and curved.  There was no way to see what was coming, and we beeped furiously, slowly rounding the bend.  There were several of these covered turns along the way, each one more nerve-wracking than the last.  But we only saw two other vehicles on that road, one a pick-up truck that refused to yield and sprawled across most of the roadway.  At first I was angry that he took so much room, then I realized he was probably as afraid as we were, given the difficulty controlling tires on the slick, muddy gravel.

At one point the view opened up, and there was a large grassy field with an enormous water spout shooting straight up.  Andrew's Geyser, I presume.  We rode by, relieved for a moment by relatively easy passage, and then tucked into the dense forest patch again.  Soon enough we reached the top, victorious.  Neither had dropped the bike, and we'd made it.  "I'm so proud of us!" I shouted over to Bill, and we both made victory fist pumps above our heads. 

Now for the trip back down, with gravity pulling us and the slick gravel having as much decision-making power as our steering in terms of where our bikes went.  The curves wound tightly on one another, and the bikes performed beautifully, and soon enough, we were on pavement again.  Woohoo!!  We'd done it!!

Not the afternoon I had in mind

So after the amazing ride through Mill Creek Road and past Andrew's geyser, we had an afternoon ahead of us of Asheville, Waynesville, the Pisgah National Forest, and our ultimate destination, the Balsam Mountain Inn--a gorgeous wooden manor-style inn described as "creaking and cantankerous" on its own website.  

We stopped for lunch in Black Mountain, and a friendly patron warned us--stay away from Asheville--those drivers SUCK.  We figured we could handle it, but YOWZA.  The Asheville drivers were brutal, rude, and downright nasty.  Bill and I already hate Asheville for lots of reasons, but this sealed it for us.  We couldn't get through there fast enough!

But then we were traveling down flat, open-country roads, and things were starting to feel better.  We left-right-left-righted through Canton, and headed again down 110, which is flat and wide open.  I started to hear a strange sound like a low whistling.  It sounded like an air noise, not an engine noise, and I remembered I had loosened on of my saddle bag clips, so I reached down to see if it had moved oddly, but it appeared to be in the right place.  I felt my helmet, checking to see if some leaf or something was making the sound.  I wiggled my head, leaned in to the engine, checked around.  I still hadn't pinned down the sound when we pulled to a red light.  The sound stopped, and the bike shook a little as it stopped.  We were turning right, and as soon as we did, I felt the handlebars shimmy, and I realized what the sound was.  You can't see your tires when you're sitting on the bike.  Or at least, you can't see them and hold the handle bars too.  But I suspected a flat, and sure enough, I had to fight the bike across the tiny bridge next to the intersection, and I swung left into the parking lot of the Jukebox Junction.  Bill, with no way to know what was happening, rode on.  I inspected the completely flat rear tire, swung off the bike and removed my helmet as I headed the few feet back to the road.  It took only a minute or so to see Bill heading back to discover the problem.  He parked next to me, and we set about making a plan.

Thank the gods and Steve Jobs (again!) for the glory that is the hand-held, internet-surfing iPhone, and I googled "motorcycle shops Waynesville."  Our goal had been to ride through the Pisgah National Forest before calling it a night, but really, we were just about 30 minutes from the hotel, and it was Thursday, so things weren't looking too horribly bad.  We called several motorcycle shops but none answered, so I sent Bill off to find the one that appeared to be nearest.  I figured everything is easier to negotiate in person.  We didn't want to leave our valuables in the saddle bags on my bike, so I stayed with it.

As I sat for the next two hours on the large rock in the parking lot of the Jukebox Junction diner, I frequently checked in with myself.  I was safe, I was physically comfortable (as much as I had been at any point on this trip, given that I was wet, but I wasn't cold), I was happy and content.  Honestly, I wasn't even all that bummed about the flat, given that we were indeed close to our destination, we had a second bike to get us around, and things were going to work out.  And I wasn't even all that bored, since we had seen so much and done so much, the forced wait just felt like a break.

The bike shop Bill had set off for turned out to be a junkyard and no real help, but he found the Maggie Valley Bikewear shop, where the people were nice, where they had a phone book and a phone (Bill's had died by then).  They were delightfully nice, helped immensely, and about an hour after he'd left me, he called to say there was a tow truck on the way.  He had called every tire shop around, and the best bet for us was MR Motorcycle in Asheville, where they had a tire in stock, could change it today, and we'd be back on the road by 6.  They later called themselves "The Vacation Savers," and they were right.

Soon enough, Chris, the NICEST TOW TRUCK DRIVER EVER showed up to SAVE THE DAY.  He picked up the bike and me and delivered us both to the shop in Asheville, talking the whole time about the dangers of riding, how he used to have a bike but scraped too many of them off the side of the road to keep it.  We talked about the 24/7 nature of his job, his wife's support and flexibility, her love of riding and how sad she was he sold the bike.  He commented, "Can you imagine if that had happened while you were on the interstate?"  I told him I rarely ride the interstate, which is true.  It's just not that much fun, and it's much more risky.

He pulled the truck over before we got on I-40 and rechecked the straps tying the bike down.  We talked about accidental death insurance and how gorgeous that part of the country is.  I told him I was feeling great--the ride had been awesome, the flat was an inconvenience, but this was all good.  What a great day!

Bill and I had agreed he would check in to the inn and drop off his saddle bags in case the bike couldn't be ready tonight, and I would be able to attach my bags to his.  He would then meet me at the shop in Asheville.

Chris dropped me off 30 minutes before closing, and they agreed to get me back on the road, though it would be a bit after 6.  Bill eventually showed up (we had been out of phone contact), and we were happy to be reunited.  Soon enough the bike was ready to go, and we headed off, hoping for dinner and a hot bath at the beautiful inn.  Bill kept telling me how gorgeous it was, and I couldn't wait.

We talked at length about how to get there.  The only reasonable way was on the interstate.  Bill had just come through there and warned me it was brutal, but the alternative was a nearly two-hour trip all the way around everywhere, including back through Canton, and I just couldn't do it.  We headed off.

The speed limit on that section of I-40 is 60 mph, but no one, and I mean no one, drives slower than 75.  It was a steep mountain pass, truck drivers jockeying for position as they climbed aggressively up the hill so they could take best advantage of the coming downhill, and it was pouring down rain.

I was a tiny dot of a little red rear light in horrible visibility, out-racing the optimal speed of my engine, winding up a crazysteep hill, the wind whipping, water on my visor, squeezed between trucks, and feeling the rattle of every cross wind, every truck tail wind, trying to stay to the right, begging to slow down but knowing the trucks needed me to keep the pace.  We reached speeds of 80 at one point, with me cursing the craziness of all this, when I felt the front end wobble.  I hoped it was my imagination.  I kept on.  The front end wobbled again, and then didn't stop.  A slight shake at first got more intense as I kept going.  I slowed to 75, then 70, checking my mirrors to make sure the trucks saw me.  The handle bars shook violently, and I held tight, keeping the bike moving straight forward.  The trucks could see me, apparently, and moved past me on the left.  The handle bars were shaking violently in my hands, and I pulled to the right side of the rightmost lane, slowing to 60, avoiding the slick white paint line and the rumble strips.  At this point we were cresting the hill, and I'd seen signs for an exit coming up.  I kept checking my mirrors, and the trucks, realizing some sort of distress, were giving me clear space.  Bill, who had been far up ahead as I slowed, pulled back, offered me the thumbs-up sign.  I did not return it, holding tight to the shaking handlebars, focused only on making it to the exit as we careened crazyfast downhill, twisting to the right with the curve of the road.

Would the tire hold out?  At what point would the rubber shift under the rim, or rip out completely, bounce the rim into the asphalt and throw me from the bike?  How long could I go 60 on a flat tire?  How long would I remain in control?  Would I have warning?  Should I pull onto the shoulder in the rain on the edge of this pass, or will I make it to the exit, which I could now see? The bike was still under my control, and Bill, powerless to help and not knowing what was going on, kept trying to signal me.  I was afraid to even shake my head for fear of disrupting the balance of my rim on the now-thin sheet of rubber between me and I-40.  He pulled off on the shoulder, but I didn't think it would be safe there, so I continued to the exit.  He got back on and followed me then, and I was able to pull over, look down, and see the flattened rubber.

I'd made it.  I was safe.  Bill was safe.  "Rubber side down," as they say.

I burst into tears. 

Bill reassured me and I got off the bike.  We called Chris again, who laughed at our funny joke.  Oh, no joke, and within what seemed like three minutes, he was there again to save the day.  And this time had his wife with him.  The dealership now closed, Chris agreed to keep the bike on the flatbed over night and meet us at the shop in the morning.  He helped us get the saddle bags off my bike and onto Bill's, he led us to the Sagebrush steak house, and he congratulated me on staying safe.  He would then call us periodically through the weekend to make sure we were safe.  He is my new best friend.

Turns out they had replaced the inner tube, not the whole tire, assuming that was the only problem.  Unfortunately, the belts had separated inside the tire and chewed the first inner tube, and then the second.  The shop covered the cost of the second tow and redid their work for free, charging me only for the tire itself.  The bigger issue for me was that we had to get back to the shop the next morning.  The rain came in sheets, and again, the only reasonable way to get there was on I-40, through the horrific mountain pass, with the trucks, in torrents of rain. I clung tightly to Bill, who, poor guy, could barely breathe as I squeezed my whole body against him.  Because the best thing to do when riding in horrific conditions and you're terrified, is to suffocate the driver.

Hot tub madness

When is a hot tub not the best thing in the world?  I mean, really. 

After lunching in Mount Airy (the real-life Mayberry), and swooshing through more country roads, Bill and I pulled in to the Fairfield Inn in Elkin, North Carolina. We had ridden all day in the rain, with a moment here and there of sunshine.  But mostly, rain.  Our socks were drenched, our pants were soaked, and although our upper bodies were kept dry by our gear, our hands, helmets, and lower bodies were drenched and cold.  We had been hugging our bikes through turns, squeezing clutch and brake, and our muscles were crying out.

One thing that I learned on this trip is the level of commitment.  Once you set off on a bike for four days of riding, there's really no turning back.  Oh, of course, you can literally turn back, but you're on the bike.  To do so means riding all that way again.  OMG.  We were so tired and sore.

The hotel staff couldn't have been nicer, and we checked in, donned our swimsuits, and hit the hot tub.  Holy canoli, the sensation of sinking into that hot water, feeling everything relax...  There's never a bad time for a hot tub, but wow.  This was great.

Once dressed again, we asked a nice staff-person where we could get a good steak dinner.  He started ticking places off on his fingers, "We don't have any of the big chains.  We don't have Appleby's, Chili's, Outback.  Now I love Appleby's but I really like Chili's.  Outback is a little high.  We don't have any of those places."  Bill perked up hopefully.  "Texas Roadhouse?"  "Nope.  I keep telling them, we need a big chain.  Like Outback.  'Course, Outback is a little high." 

Seriously, this went on for several minutes in the hallway, the guy naming all the places we couldn't go for dinner, until he finally mentioned the Dodge City Steakhouse.  "Now, it got some bad reviews a while back, but they have new owners, and I've been there four times since the new owners, and I've been happy every time." 

He gave us directions and then it took about eight more minutes to extricate ourselves from this conversation, and we went upstairs to discover it was raining--pouring--again.  Aye carrumba.  We debated, and I checked the internet to get excited about the restaurant.  Only to discover it's only open on weekends.  Oh dear.

Bill called the front desk and discovered that a local Italian place delivers to the hotel, straight to the room, so we called, ordered, and had salmon and a delicious creamy mushroom chicken delivered.  Guy knocked on the door, we let him in, and he says, "I'm guessing you're the guests came in on those bikes out front."  Yep, that's us.

After dinner we hit the hot tub again, this time highly entertained by staff drama.  Some argument had ensued prior, and the aftermath of dude on the patio staring silently off in the distance, crushing his soda can in his hands before stalking off dramatically, unfolded in front of us.  We heard other staff, also enjoying the hot tub, processing the experience, unconcerned that two guests were hearing every word of it.  The very young woman soothed the very young man at the heart of it all, and the other men (boys, really) weighed in.  Yack yack yack.

Along with the hot tub, cable, and BED, the hotel also had a CLOTHES DRYER.  All praise the Marriott chain!!

Life in a Ziplock bag

I'm a hardcore over-packer.  For the most part, my travel is by car, so I'm inclined to just load up everything I might need.  Clothes for every weather event and every occasion.  Shoes to match every outfit.  All my full-size toiletries, like shampoo and soap and such.  I pack coolers of food and sodas, bags of snacks, and everything you might want, ever, to eat at a picnic.  I mean, why not?  Where I'm going has sheets and pillows and towels?  Well, I can bring my own, just in case we are struck by some unexpected bedding and towel emergency.  After all, I can just pile it all in the car, and I don't even have to unpack it if I don't need it.  And forget luggage.  Paper bags, plastic bags, or even just random items in the back seat.  It all comes with me.

So when Bill suggested we take a motorcycle vacation, honestly, one of my biggest worries was how to pack four days of my life into two small saddlebags.  I had just watched "Long Way Down," where Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman travel all through Africa on motorcycles, and I saw how they packed tents, clothes, and all their supplies on their bikes.  (And in three accompanying SUVs, but let's not focus on that.)  "I can do this!" I told myself with no conviction whatsoever.  And sure enough, I procrastinated like any anxious person doomed to failure does.  But Tuesday night came, and there was no turning back.  I took out four Ziplock freezer bags and told myself what didn't fit in them, didn't come.  Aye carrumba!!  But I managed to squeeze in seven days' worth of clothes (yes, for a four-day trip, I know, I KNOW), but I even included jammies and swimwear.  I squished the air out of the bags before I zipped them up, and lo and behold, I looked like a super-packer!!

So I proudly loaded the saddle bags up Tuesday night, squeezed in a few more empty ziplocks for wet clothes and dirty clothes, and went to bed excited for the trip the next day.  Yay motorcycles!  Yay Ewan McGregor!

Until about 3 a.m. when the sound of a horrific downpour woke me to find Bill checking the radar and weather report (modern technology is AMAZING) on his phone, and oopsy.  Rain ALL weekend ALL over our route.  We had originally told ourselves we would take the car if faced with bad weather, but come ON, I'd packed in Ziplock bags!  We couldn't turn back now!

So after an anxious and fitful night's sleep, we awoke to the rain still pouring down steadily, gathered up the animals for feeding time, showered, and slowly donned our gear and waterproofed ourselves.  I'm proud of us that we never for a second considered the car, although I whined about the rain gear. It's just so uncomfortable and ugly.  Not at all the motorcycle babe look I'm going for.

And off we went, stopping of course for coffee and by about 8:15, we were sitting in rush-hour traffic on 54 heading to Graham in the rain.  Wait.  What?  Oh right, it's Wednesday!!  So, yes, rush hour traffic, right past both our offices, and then off! on country roads to Graham, then to 87 north through Burlington, and by now we'd been on the road like an hour or more, our tummies rumblin, and jeans damply stuck to my legs.  The rain gear worked fine, but North Carolina this time of year is somewhat like the inside of a clothes dryer, and while rain gear keeps rain out, it also keeps sweat IN.  So, this is all to tell you that we stopped at the West Webb Curb Market, which looks like a hole-in-the-wall convenience store, but when you step inside is an enormous general store with a crotchety old lady who will scramble you up an egg, fry some bacon, and curmudgeoningly throw it on white toast for you.  The rest of the folks there were very sweet, keep their bathroom clean, and wished us safe journey on our way out.  The sun was making an occasional appearance by now, and one thing I realized was that even in the rain, I was having a great time.  I love love love the bike (you may have gleaned that from previous posts), and the roads of North Carolina are just exquisite.  Even in the rain.

We swooshed on for several more hours, and eventually the rain dissipated, and we rolled north to nearly-Virginia, and then cut west, south, west, north, and so on, following a route carefully construed to see as much as possible and end up in Mount Airy for lunch.  The green fields, the pines, the jungle-like stretches where huge and lush greenery encroaches on the shoulders and shades the pavement, the corn fields, the tobacco fields, and the endless supply of churches all glide past, the sound of the wind drowning out most thoughts, and the bike responding like it's part of you.  This, this could go on forever and be wonderful.

And then we made it to 89 North toward Mount Airy.  The curves on this road fold tightly in on one another, and the grading creates bowl-shaped loops all intertwining to give you the sense of being the ball in the old game Mousetrap, that slid and rolled and swooshed through the track.  The trees leaned over the road and we were basically in a jungle tunnel (well, the North Carolina jungle, if you can imagine), and since we mostly had the road to ourselves, we could slow as we needed, bend and twist, lean and tuck, scraping our pegs and floorboards along the way.  At one point there's a turn onto 66 that takes you about 350 degrees--no lie--to the right.  There's a stop sign first, so you're starting from stillness, but then you're on a road of even more intense curves, but this time we were following a logging truck who had obviously traveled here before because he was barreling down the road in front of us.  Nothing good could come from that, so I was glad when we eventually turned off, back on to 89, and eventually into Mount Airy.  In those moments I felt kinship with the adventurers of the world who set off on long journeys to simply explore the terrain.  Mine might only be four days, and it might be my home state, but I've got to start somewhere.  Today North Carolina, tomorrow, well North Carolina! 

From Mummy to Barbecue in One Wrong Turn

So it all started with plans to go to Statesville last weekend to visit some of Bill's family. A friend of mine reminded me that there is a small museum in Statesville, and in that small museum in that small town in North Carolina, there is a real, honest-to-goddess Egyptian mummy. Now, I'm all in favor of visiting Bill's family and keeping in touch with these people who were kind to him when he was young, but now I've found there's a mummy involved--let's go!!

So this was our plan, to visit Uncle Linford, and, unbeknownst to Bill, I was going to try and convince him to drop me in town so I could find the museum and see the mummy.

You might know us well enough now to realize that this is not actually what we did that weekend. We got talking about how we would like to ride the bikes while the weather is wonderful, but I didn't want to commit to such a long trip, so agreed to ride on Saturday and go to Statesville on Sunday (when the museum would be closed, I was sure), but Sunday was mother's day, and well... We never did make it to Statesville, but there's always next weekend!

All this is to get us to Saturday morning while we sat at the coffee shop table and out came the iPhones and the Androids, and the google maps, and we were planning an impromptu ride on what promised to be a gorgeous, windy road to Carthage and a well-known Carolina BBQ joint. The men pored over maps, and the women talked gossip, and the men planned a trip and the women talked gossip, and then, off we went... to breakfast down the road, where we ran into friends and learned that some of us had promised to garden today but changed those plans in favor of the open road, southern BBQ, and Carthage.

But, it turns out, we didn't quite do this either. Unfortunately the gossiping women left the men alone to plan the trip, and we went left when we should have gone right, which was east when we should have gone west, and with a shrug of the shoulders, we were off at delightful speeds, the wind whisping past us, nothing but open air and open road, confidently, beautifully, joyously, in the wrong direction.

Which we figured out when we got in to Wilson. Now this was fine by me, 'cuz I've been trying for a year or more to ride to Wilson to go to a pagan store I know about and have wanted to check out. So I pulled out the handydandy iPhone and found the store I wanted while also finding Parkers BBQ, just down the road. Perfect. And off we all went, headed to Parkers.

The parking lot was packed--a good sign for sure--and we were greeted at the door by a smiling white guy who waved us in. The first room is a typical restaurant room with tables and chairs, and we walked with the host through this room to the enormous back room filled to the brim with tables, chairs, and scores and scores of white people. We held our helmets and our jackets squeaked, and our boots clomped, and all this became incredibly noticeable as people in the restaurant looked up, dropped their food-laden forks, their mouths agape, as they STARED AT US AS IF WE CAME FROM MARS. You could have heard a pin drop, which is why we did distinctly hear the woman gasp, "Oh. My. God." as we walked past. The silence of a 100 southerners NOT eating their BBQ was deafening.

REALLY?????

Are we REALLY that scary? The social worker? The resident coordinator? The respiratory therapist? The customer service specialist? REALLY???

I put my helmet and jacket down at the table, and headed for the rest room. It had been three hours, after all... In there were two girls--probably about ten years old. They saw me walk in, and one grabbed the other. They ran into a stall and slammed the door, locking themselves in, where they stayed till I left. I could just about hear their teeth chattering through the stall. Oh MY!!

But all that was no biggie. We are our own entertainment, and so we had delicious BBQ, we went on to the pagan store, and we had a WONDERFUL afternoon. All the riding left us happily tired and a bit sore, and that was all perfect!

Curse you, Red Baron!

The plane's tires skittered along the grass runway, and I could feel every weed, every divot, every clump as it gathered not-near-enough-speed, its propeller straining, the engine whining, the wind in my face... I wondered if I should not have believed the "one or two passengers" ad, but took comfort in the fact that there were indeed two seatbelts, so surely the plane could hold our weight. Right? RIGHT?

We were in a single-prop, red Waco biplane with no windshield, a la Snoopy and the Red Baron. We were even wearing the same leather headgear and goggles. Snoopy had only the scarf to set him apart from us. This was Bill's early birthday present--early because I couldn't stand the idea of being in an open plane and all the wind we would face in December. Brrrrr... So we picked this beautiful November day, when the leaves were at their peak, and the North Carolina landscape was a riot of color and texture, and our shaky little ride above the tree tops gave us a glorious view.

Of the prison in Butner.

Yep, Bill spotted it straight away. Well, first we took a shaky and rattly flight over Falls Lake, and then turned--wheeee--back toward Butner and Bahama. I say "wheeee" because turning in a plane like that means first you're leaning out the side to see the treetops and lake around you, and then you're SIDEWAYS in the air, and the lake and tree tops are now at your elbow. I had thought all week about how I might die on this flight, how it would be worth it to have done something like this, and how, well, if you gotta go... But now I'm looking at a lake at my ear, and I realize my death is imminent. What was I thinking?

Actually, it feels like you could jump out and land harmlessly in the water. Like a James Bond movie. The lake is there and the trees are there, and it feels like you could just hop out. Until you realize that the weird little lump on the sand over there? That black spot with the yellow around it? It's a HUMAN. And if it looked up and waved at you, you wouldn't be able to tell because it's too far away to distinguish something as small as an arm.

Death. Imminent.

Bill on the other hand, was worried about vomiting. As the plane had been taking off, skittering left and right, I had been sure we would not survive the trip. Bill had no such worries. Not one bit. He was simply worried he would throw up all over the beautiful red plane.

I was reassured, though, that the air in our faces and the smoother ride above the tree line wasn't bothering our stomachs. I felt fine. Absolutely. I was contemplating my demise, but I was not at all worried about my stomach. This was not like a roller coaster ride with swooping ups and downs. This was more like a recliner, while large expanses of landscape coast slowly by on an unimaginable scale. Even the turns--you only knew you were turning because you could see it, with the horizon tilting and the ground coming up on your side. The sensation, though, was all smooth and steady. This was cool, we could handle it.

And indeed, that's when Bill pointed out the prison. A huge white swath cut in to the landscape. Interesting architecture, I must admit. Triangles sit on top of squares, and it's an interesting design from this high up. I imagine (you may notice an emerging theme) that we might crash into the prison, and I think about how ironic that would be for Bill.

We continue along over trees and neighborhoods--the new kind with the ticky-tacky houses in their ticky-tacky rows, looking like Monopoly buildings--and over Lake Michie, and along along along. The air is pushing so hard against the plane that you feel like you can't breathe, except that when you inhale, there's plenty of air and you're fine. The hum of the propeller trying so hard has faded into the background of my brain, and I am actually enjoying the view of Central Carolina life from up here. I am looking for the top of Spruce Pine Lodge, where we will have our wedding next year. I'm hoping I'll recognize it, since it will be on the water, and have a large parking area. I never did find it, but no matter.

The trees were particularly beautiful in one stretch. The leaves were a blanket of soft autumn colors, the overcast sky let us look out across everything without squinting, and I thought I might not die. I might actually get used to this. I had a fleeting thought of pursuing a pilot's license. I remembered the house set along the runway and thought how cool it would be to live at a small airport. I wondered if I could make these people my people.

And then Bill puked.

At first he made the puffy-cheeked puking gesture like he was getting sick. And then I realized it wasn't a gesture.

Ever the gentleman who didn't want to mess up the beautiful plane, he tucked his face into his shirt and kept the mess to a minimum. And then he puked again. This time like he meant it.

Ahhh, such a great birthday present, don't you think?

He chose not to cut the ride short, and we finished out the 30 minutes with Mike, our pilot, unaware of Bill's plight. Eventually we turned back toward the highway, the grass runway visible just on the other side of it. In a few minutes, we had dropped out of the sky with remarkable speed, and were bumpbumpbumping along the grass again.

Mike was shocked to hear Bill had gotten sick. In 25 years of doing this, only three other people have had that honor. Something about the air and there being no windows--people don't get sick when there's plenty of air.

Bill, though, was the first to avoid getting it all over the plane. So there's that.

Anyway, we had fresh clothes in the car, and he changed up and all was well. (Until we got in the car on the way home, and a new wave of pleasekeeptheearthstillforamoment sickness hit him. He spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping, and it might be the worst birthday present he's ever had.)

But I still recommend it. I loved it. And I didn't die.

www.carolinabarnstormers.com

September 1st

So it is no longer surprising to me that I might spend a day sitting outside the Wake County jail. With a purpose, no less.

It was a sunny, warm Thursday. Perfect, really, as it started out cool and inviting--the kind of late-summer day in North Carolina that hints at the autumnal delights soon to come. But by mid-morning, I was tanning a line into my arms where my sleeves were, sweat was beading on my neck, and I sought the shade of a scraggly tree at the sidewalk’s edge. I sat there for three hours.

When I had first walked up, I saw the adorable girl approach the frat-boy-looking guy at the next bench. He was barefoot and held his belt in his hands. He looked about 20, in baggy shorts and t-shirt, looking every bit like one of the eight gazillion college kids streaming about the Triangle every fall. She too appeared about 20, and was every inch of adorable, thin, blonde. Her natural-fiber wedges showed off her adorable feet, and her cropped pants and tank top had her looking like a youthful beauty who looked perfect at every occasion. She even looked perfect in front the jail at 9 a.m.

“How long were you in?” she asked our beltless friend. I noticed her wallet and papers in a large ziplock bag next to her. How does she get out of JAIL and still look better dressed than I on my best day?

“I wrecked my car last night. They brought me here.”

Silence as the pieces didn’t add up, and Pretty had to think about it. Beltless seemed to realize it wouldn’t fly. “I got a DUI.”

I passed them both, just as she got up to share his bench, and I wondered who you have to be to be that cute and pick up the barefoot wonder, hungover and dazed, the day after his DUI. I sat at the bench further down the sidewalk. I texted a description of the scene to my friend. He wrote back, “Even Hitler had a girlfriend.”

I read my book for a few minutes while the sun grew stronger, and eventually became aware that Beltless was gone, and Pretty was left alone on her bench. She leaned to her left, where she’d been sitting originally, and started chatting with a stringy guy who had his shoes and belt, but no front teeth. They talked for a while, and he moved over next to her, and I became aware they were exchanging stories of headline-grabbing murders that had happened in town. “Did you hear about those teenagers in Apex who all got together and killed that guy?”

I updated my friend on Pretty being abandoned by Beltless and now talking murder with Stringy, and that they seemed to be hitting it off. He responded, “Love in the ruins.”

They chatted a while, and suddenly I became aware of a loud, insistent honking across the street. A driver, alone at the intersection, leaning on his horn, his purpose unclear since he had no one in front of him except the red light. Pretty, interrupted in her analysis of local brutality, looked up. “DADDY!” she screamed as she leapt to her feet, arms over her head like a gymnast nailing the landing. In seconds she had gathered her things and run across the street. Before she would have finished the sentence she had started, she was in the sedan and they were driving off.

Stringy turned to me, “That girl does NOT belong in jail.” He told me the story of her getting out in 15 days--half of her sentence for multiple DUIs. Stringy, on the other hand, had not been in jail, but had been talking to the clerk of court about a mistake on his driving record. He turned out to be the most functional in the cast of the common-man drama I had just witnessed.

I texted my friend how lucky I am to witness this slice of life. He wrote, “Faulkneresque. If your own family won't have ya then who will?”

And then, “What a world, Jen. What a world.”

Bill and Jen's Most Excellent Adventure

I like best the feeling just on the other side of the swell. You've stood up to your neck in water, and the wave is coming--no breakers, as you've jumped past those and fought the current to get to the part of the ocean where the water is bumpy. You're on your tippy toes, and the wave comes, so you push off the sandy ground and let the water pick you up, and if you relax, it drops you--poff!--on the other side of the wave. That's my favorite part.

And that's why I spent hours of our beach trip in just that place in the ocean, where the water came up to my neck when I stood on tippy toes, and the waves were breaking behind me, and I just let the ocean carry me up and then down(poff!), up and then down(poff!). At Emerald Isle (as opposed to Atlantic Beach where we were the first day), I even found a sweet spot where waves came from the left and from the right, making a corner of swell in the water, and it not only dropped me down(poff!), but a little to the left or to the right. Poffwhoop!

But the ocean was only the sugar glaze on the Krispy Kreme donut that was our entire vacation. From just about the minute we left till we pulled back into our driveway, we had an enchanted time.

We took back roads both ways. If you know of the stretch of highway between here and the coast, you know it's deadly boring and really quite ugly. My friend Robin has seen every mile of I-40 from its origins in Barstow, California, to Wilmington, NC, and she said unequivocally, the ugliest, boringest stretch is that between Raleigh and the coast.

So we forewent the direct route and chose instead Highway 55. The same road that has our Food Lion on it. We went out of our neighborhood and turned right. All the way to the beach!

We passed Billy Bob's (which, we later found out, was a bar, pool hall, hot dog and burger grill, and general store). We passed the billboard for the agent "in tune with your real estate needs" and the picture of him playing saxaphone. We passed the cheesy church signs, the clapboard converted-barn structure with dark stains and a dirt parking lot that advertised itself as a bar, "bikers welcome," in the middle of a field miles from the nearest store, gas station, traffic light or other signs of life. But they advertised Karaoke on Thursday nights, and Bill visibly shuddered at the thought of the "music" emanating from the cracks in those wood boards at midnight.

In some towns, we could see homes torn apart by recent tornadoes--roofs blown off, frames mangled--right next door to untouched homes, still perfect, yards away from badly damaged ones. It was sobering to see them so close to our home.

We passed fields of tobacco and beans and corn. Huge manor-style homes beautifully landscaped separated only with a single row of trees from the trailers and shack-style homes of the Latinos migrating up the region to pick the tobacco as it grows. A "curb-appeal" house got us laughing out loud when we saw that the front of it had been refurbished, freshly painted, bright white with a red door--looked beautiful. But the other visible sides were run down, paint peeling, boards separating, mold growing. Behind the house was what appeared to be a church, in a state of disrepair that matched the sides. The odd juxtaposition caught us both at the same moment as we rounded the curve, and we bust out laughing together.

We also saw chimneys standing without houses, foundations still visible in crop fields, passed tiny white churches with beautiful windows, and old cemeteries gated off in the corners of crop fields.

North Carolina is such a pretty state, and 55 curves, slopes, sweeps through amazing greenery, history, strength, and beauty.

As we approached Carteret, the air grew heavy with the smoke of nearby forest fires, our throats itched, and the smell of ash and burned wood filled the air. Large metal power-line poles (heavy-duty and hurricane "proof") loomed out of the smokey dusk ahead of us, looking every bit like the scenery from a science-fiction movie.

We arrived late Wednesday at the home of Bill and Frances, friends who have generously offered us use of their home. They were still in Hillsborough until tomorrow, and had been for nearly two weeks, so we opened up the house, made sure the power had not been disrupted to the freezer, the digital tv, the internet. We checked on Frances's mom and sister who live nearby, walked down to the dock, threw the net for shrimp, and watched tv. What a glorious day and a relaxing evening!

The next morning we went to the local coffee shop where we'd been before, and over mochas, planned our jaunt to the beach (Bill and Frances live on the sound), and at a local cafe, Bill ate the best corned beef hash ever while I enjoyed my usual eggs, bacon, toast.

We found parking at Atlantic Beach, where the water was perfect--cool when you first get in, but easy to get used to, and the waves broke over our knees and against our tummies, making it easy to push past them to the lull of the swells. We found a sand bar where the water was up to our necks and rode the waves up and down. I was rubbing my face at one point, eyes closed into my fists, when I felt the water pull away from my body until even my waist was in the sun, and I realized with a sinking feeling the size of the wave that must be approaching, sucking the water away. BOOM!! I felt the water crash over me and tug me toward shore, which I let it do, until I could get my feet back under me and stand up, giggling at the picture I must have made, calm and unsuspecting as the wave rose well above my head. I'm basically afraid of water, but I like it anyway. Especially on a day like that when it's perfect.

The next day was Emerald Isle, but also some sight seeing. Bill and Frances had arrived by then, and they told us of a drive through the Croatan National Forest. Oh my!! Pine trees, tall, straight and growing in fields like surreally-sized grass, the forest stretches for 160,000 acres across coastal, sandy planes. We rode for miles, noticing where fires had scorched the brush, where hardwoods were taking hold, and different places where the pine trees were winning, and where the colors danced in the sunlight dappling through the tall stretches of needly green.

We also stopped at Christina's Collectibles, a delightful, pagan-owned store where Christina sells primarily wine, but also has a number of odds and ends, all of which gave us great decorating ideas for the house and envy for crystal and glass chandeliers outside of our price range. We made a mental note to return after we win the lottery, and Bill got completely distracted by Chablis, the lovey cat named for the color of both her fur and her eyes. Who can resist a monochromatic shop cat who loves attention?

Saturday we again took a leisurely route, and this time we headed up to Oriental, NC, where 55 ends. We checked the map in the process, and discovered that 55 peters out in Durham and doesn't pick up again west of here, so we drove almost the entire length of 55, and given the number of times we've driven to the end of 55 here, we figure that counts.

Oriental is an amazing little sailing town cut-and-pasted out of Maine. We agreed to come back one day and spend the weekend in their Captains' Quarters B&B. (Right before we bought another lottery ticket.)

Just before Oriental, though, we were driving on 306 north and the traffic slowed to a stop. Hmmmm... wonder why. Oh! A ferry!!! Bill's first ferry!! How fun! We drove on board, under the watchful eyes of the black-faced gulls, each perched on their own pole in the water until we left dock, when they hitched a ride on the back and side railings. I had forgotten how mesmerizing the water is that splashes up on the front of a boat as it cuts through the current. As a kid I could stare for hours at the rhythmic tossing and foaming against the front edges of the boats my dad took us out on. I did that again that day, sitting on the window of my car with my feet propped against the side of the boat. Bill went off to take photos and I saw him chatting up the little old ladies nearby. He definitely has a way with little old ladies...

It was on the way back that we stopped at Billy Bob's, just outside of Seven Springs. It is a bit of a ramshackle place, with a dirt parking lot, an obviously aging building that's falling apart, and some nice-looking people outside who make you wonder how it is they have nowhere else they need to be. It was 11 a.m. on a Saturday, and inside two men sat at the bar getting drunk. A younger guy obviously had a head-start and was bouncing around manically, talking to anyone who would listen, about his acts of strength and prowess. Bill noted the pool tables in the back, and I sat at the formica table with molded plastic benches while Bill used the rest room. Once we were both at the plastic table, the older gentlemen at the bar stared curiously (and not really nicely) at us, so once Bill's hotdogs were done to his liking (chili, cheese, onions, peppers, ketchup and anything else you can fit on the bun), we stepped outside to eat. The nice gentleman on the porch who had been having a neighborly conversation with the other nice gentleman on the porch teased us about not being allowed to eat inside, and I agreed, "They don't serve our kind here." We walked to a shady spot near our cars, on the edge of a beautiful green pasture with horses and a classic white house with black shutters. The nice gentleman on the porch followed us and struck up a delightfully friendly conversation. Turns out he's Bob of Billy Bob, and Billy, his brother, had started the business with him, but after about six months, the call of the road and his former life as a truck driver, bit him badly, and he left Bob holding the fort with his wife ("but not really 'cuz we never really got married") of eight years. We talked and joked quite a bit, about the horses, about small-town living, about owning a business. It was delightful, and we left feeling uplifted and happy about our state and the country side. In the car we joked about the clientele, the nature of the old fashioned general store, the genuineness of it all. "The bathroom doesn't even have a sink," Bill said, which kind of killed the mood.

Anyway, we wended our way home to find a hungry dawg (he doesn't eat when we leave), and nonchalant cats (Oh. You're back.) It was perfect since the holiday weekend meant we still had two full days to recover from the trip, and in my mind, it was the perfect vacation.

Poff!