Vacay 2013, Day One

This is a real thing, I'm about to tell you.  I didn't make it up.  It's real. They have a business license and everything.  We were headed to the Wimington Serpentarium (don't ever go there), and they are cash-only, so we went to the shop that is essentially next door, although you have to round the corner and go in from the other street, to use the ATM inside.  And this shop?  The one I didn't believe?  It's an oxygen bar.

Oxygen. Bar.

Perhaps you've heard of it.  Perhaps it is I who is so naive to the ways of the world--or the ways of people who have money to spend on such frivolity--but myself, I had no idea such a thing existed.

So here's the scoop.  They have a lovely and restful space--like what you find at a spa or massage place--and over on the left is a tall, wide table, with a row of bottles filled with liquid.  They are flavored?  Or are they scented?  With things like "springtime breeze" and "watermelon kiwi."  The plastic tubing runs into the bottle, pushes O2 through the springtime breeze, and out the other tube, which ended in a coupler.  Presumably, when you purchase your minutes, you get a clean cannula for your own nose to attach to the scent/flavor of your choice.

Nearby is a flyer with "O2 facts," and it is probably this that bothered me the most.  I mean, hey, if you want to hang out, breathing oxygen when it's not medically prescribed, and you think it helps with something, go for it.  After all, Michael Jackson, that bastion of sanity and health, used to walk around with an oxygen thingy.  You're not weird.  (And seriously, I feel a little guilty even writing this, because, honestly, if you like it, and you feel better, go for it.  I mean, I am a fan of Reiki, energy work, crystal therapy, and all that.  So yeah, this really isn't that weird.). But it's the fake science that wigs me out.  The fact sheet had incorrect facts on it, but also led you to believe, in that passive aggressive way of setting up incorrect conclusions from spurious data, that we were all slowly dying of oxygen deprivation, and a few minutes at an (pay-by-the-minute) oxygen bar would save our lives.

Then I remembered pages from the Bill Bryson book I just read where he describes the advent of refined sugar--people ate it till it blackened their teeth, and then having blackened teeth became a sign of wealth and prosperity.

So in some future book about life in the 21st century, an author will describe these oxygen bars as an example of how the rich showed off their wealth--they preferred their air watermelon kiwi scented. To breathe unscented air was just so gauche.

Unfortunately, I imagine we will HAVE TO breathe special air soon enough, and then I will feel extra bad about this blog.

But more importantly, we went to lunch with our friend Dave, and he took us all around Wilmington, filling us in on the history of the area. I love love LOVE the architecture of Wilmington. The houses are so beautiful, and we promised ourselves we would return to Wilmington for a weekend and make it a photographic journey. It is just so beautiful there.

We watched the paddle wheel river cruise boat go by, saw the horse-drawn carriages in town, walked by the old slave market, and I was drawn, as I always am, to the history and Americana of these river towns.  I love to imagine the lives spent here when the water was the access to the world.

I like to think of the absolutely vital supplies being delivered, how people counted on the shipments coming in time.  And I like to compare that to the richest of the people, who had more frivolous deliveries, like fine silks or expensive furnishings.  The equivalent, I suppose, of the oxygen bar up the street.

As I write this, NASA is moving its next Mars mission toward the launch pad for deployment this fall.  It has a cross-country journey ahead of it, in the belly of an Air Force cargo jet, before its big journey to Mars.  And I am thinking of how we will one day have "ports" on other planets, and how the lives there will turn on the supplies delivered.  For me, it will be the chocolate, and perhaps the eggplant, and maybe sweet potatoes.  The way certain things taste a certain way, and they are surely not going to be able to replicate the American sweet potato on Martian soil. Clothes, furnishings, and other non-edible stuff--I can adapt. But the flavors of home--that's what I would miss.

And here in Cape Carteret, we just purchased our annual Bogue Sound watermelon. They are truly special. I don't really like watermelon--never have (unless you're talking jolly rancher, in which case watermelon was da bomb)--but the Bogue Sound watermelon is a thing all its own.  It's on ice right now as I sit on the porch of Bill and Frances, feeling the ocean-past-the-island-and-over-the-sound breeze brush past my sandy toes. Now, this is air I would pay for.

Pow wow rhythm

Take a piece of Indian fry bread, but don't add sugar. Instead, top it with beans, lettuce, tomato, onion, cheese and sour cream. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!! The Indian taco is our go-to lunch for pow wows, and we're never disappointed. A pow wow is a feast for the senses--beautiful sites, a cacophony of sounds, and oh yes, deliciousness.

We got there early and were pleased to discover about a gazillion vendors hawking their wares--more even than last year. I love the wonders you find in a vendor tent, brimming with colorful goods, some hanging, some piled, some featured, some worn by the seller. I love the open-market, bazaar feel of pow wows, and the sounds, smells and colorful sights take me right back to the African markets I visited many years ago. There's just something about the energy of these places that can't be matched. And for some reason, American flea markets don't catch it. Maybe it's all the craptastic plastic at our flea markets that pales when compared to the hand-wrought, natural pieces in a pow wow market, but whatever the reason, we love these venues.

Bill and I have similar shopping styles. We choose our purchases based on the vibe we get from the seller, more so even than the goods themselves. We passed up hundreds of pieces of incredible jewelry, but purchased a small piece that wasn't all that pretty, simply because the seller was earnest and poured himself into it. The tooth-and-gem piece now protects my bike, and frankly, looks pretty badass.

So we made the loop, talking with each of the vendors. Obviously, we like the ones best who are selling their own art work. One gentleman had collected moose antlers and carved the most beautiful pieces into them. Even though they were way out of our price range, we couldn't help but stare at the gentle curves and organic shapes brought to life in the bone. Just gorgeous.

One vendor, who was also very cool and would have earned our business if I needed any more jewelry, crafted amazing bracelets from silver--each one different from anything I've seen before. Just gorgeous. 

Some tents are filled with flow-through purchases, mass produced and targeting a market of, well, I suppose little kids and people who just love to acquire stuff. But the cheap stuff, as long as it's not the dominant product, adds to the vibe as well. We found an herb shop--oh, the smells!!--bought a small, stone bear, a ring for Bill, some food. Soon enough after arriving, the sounds of the drums warming up in the main arena drifted through the venue. Then the strains of a single person singing with a guitar. That was so different and quiet compared to everything else, we stopped for a minute and stepped in to watch him warm up, the sounds of the market area fading behind us.

And then it was time to find a seat near the floor and await the grand entry. The emcee called to each drum for roll call, and they each responded with a short song, the hammers thrumming deeply on drums the size of a kitchen table, and I watched the smaller children off to my left, dressed in full regalia and too excited to contain themselves, dancing to the roll call. While I sat in my chair, tired still from yesterday's journey, I wondered at their energy. Even as a youngster, I didn't have that kind of vigor, and now, the thought of dancing for three days straight is unthinkable. I shall sit here, thankyouverymuch, and eat my taco.

And then it was time for the grand entry. The emcee announced the host drum, who got us started with a beautiful song, and in came the dancers, led by dignitaries of the host tribe and intertribal councils. Each time the pow wows start, goose bumps rise up on my skin, and a surge of emotion pours through me. This is a millenia-old tradition of travel, gathering, hosting, and honoring. The drums reach your soul and drag the life force of all the Americas to the surface, pouring through your limbs and out to the pow wow circle in front of you. The emcee identifies the honorees and then calls the dancing groups in, all of whom are moving to the rhythm of the drums, their magnificent head pieces, feathers, horsehair, skins, and cloth alive with the beat of their footsteps pounding out a history of pride, beauty and strength.

The dancers enter in a wide circle and create a tightening spiral as more and more pour into the venue. About 400 people finally gather, while the audience stands for prayer and song honoring the Creator, as well as the veterans and warriors of the various tribes present. The emcee remembers as well those empty chairs at area dinner tables, belonging to all those soldiers still in harm's way, whose families await their safe return.

Once the formal ritual is over, the dance competitions start. Catawba starts theirs with a number of intertribal dances, bringing large crowds of dancers out to the arena area, a festive, brightly colored event for the spectators to enjoy. New to me this year was the presence of iPads on the dance floor, recording the drums and in the case of one of the dancers, texting her mom. I love watching the adaptation of regal, beautiful, ancient ritual being brought into now, evolving in front of us, alive, current and relevant. Pow wows are not a harkening back to a glorious time; they are not historical reproductions of quaint or revisionist tribal traditions. They are the very present celebrations of a living culture that is filled with rich and honorable traditions but participating fully in modern America. The people of the pow wow have not set aside a weekend to "go be Indian." They are Americans in every way--not the least of which is military service--and enjoying a glorious festival this weekend.

There is a sound of a pow wow that is hard to describe. Yes, in the background are the ever-present drums, but also, the voices of the people, the speakers on the microphone, and all that. But beneath it all, cutting through the deep drums and sonorous voices--beneath it all is the bells. The women's dresses jingle with hundred of small bells, and the men's boots and women's shoes--all are decorated with bells. As you shop the vendors circling the main auditorium, you hear the sounds of bells as people walk the crowd. It all takes on a rhythm of the pow wow life itself, and soon enough it blends into a loud hum. 

But I remember as we left, we were seeking a smudge stick, and therefore made another round of the vendors. The grand entry and several dances had taken place, and now the vendor aisles were packed with people. I had seen the warriors in the dance arena, and they are a sight. Badass that I may be, these guys are hard-core, and as I heard the approach of the bells from my right, I looked up, and here came a warrior in full regalia. I know, I know, I KNOW he was a normal human being of normal height, but as he approached, I realized he had to be seven feet tall. I shrunk in my mind to a tiny girl, and he only got bigger as he got closer. The face paint, the skins, the feathers, all conspire to KICK ASS. In all my badass dreams, I can only hope to be a tenth as intimidating as that. A few minutes later we crossed paths with two more, and these were even taller than the last. Kick. Ass.

And so our pow wow day passed. We got back on our bikes, leaving the drum beat and remarkable sights behind us. We are pow wow bound again in a few weeks, this time to Lumberton, which is my favorite. And then it will be a year again, probably, before we return here. I can't wait!

Never motorcycle through orange

I woke up the morning of our motorcycle trip and did what I do every morning, pretty much as soon as I open my eyes. I grabbed my phone.

It's gross, isn't it? It started innocently enough. I would lie in bed for however long, do my usual morning things, and eventually check email and Facebook without having to get up. But then, the threshold for grabbing the phone got earlier and earlier, until now, I am often blinking at it, trying to get my eyes to focus through the haze of immediate wakening. Chide me if you must, but know that I chide myself at moments like that. Much as I love the technology of this amazing century, I must admit, I have drunk the Koolaid.

But regardless, this was an exciting morning--we were headed to Rock Hill, SC, on motorcycles!! We are SO COOL!!! And so, as I reached for my phone, a stab of consternation ran through me as I saw an hours-old text waiting for me from Alert Carolina -- which is a benefit of UNC employment I cannot opt out of -- stating that Orange County was under tornado watch. "Conditions favorable." Gack. We had heard there would be a cold front and accompanying storms coming from the south and west, the exact direction we were travelling. And now tornadoes. Rain wasn't going to stop us. We've gotten wet before. But tornadoes? Visions of Dorothy Gale and Toto -- in the sidecar with goggles, of course -- flashed through my head.

So this led me to the radar, also on my phone, and I could see the band of rain, almost a perfectly straight column, moving toward us. There were plenty of green areas, but this column had a surprising percentage of yellow and orange as well. Now, I was once on a relatively short ride around a local lake -- one of my typical evening, unwind-from-the-day kind of rides -- when I was hit by sudden rain. I had noticed the clouds building and tried to get to cover, but failed, and suddenly I was on a two-lane road, with no shoulder, in unbelievable torrents. The kind of rain where, in a car, you kick the windshield wipers up to maximum, turn off the stereo, slow down, and peer intently through the unrelenting gray to seek out tail lights and make sure you don't hit someone. I found a gas station fairly quickly, but in the intervening minutes, I was rocked about, the tires making a wake through the seemed-like-many-inches of water flowing down the road, and I strained to see through the wiperless visor and the rain that made sheets of water like curtains in front of me. Once I pulled to safety and checked the radar (I LOVE the century that has hand-held computers in it!), I saw the blob of orange over my road. This was orange. Never ever ever motorcycle through orange.

So these were the thoughts going through my head as I looked at the column of rain currently hovering between Greensboro and my house. Soon enough, the sounds of the large drops on the roof and in the garden came to us, along with the speedy arrival of a very wet orange kitten who flew in to the room from whatever mischief he had been getting into outside. Beyond the column, though, were clear skies, so we simply delayed our trip a few hours, and waited it out.

Which brings me to the intersection of Old Greensboro Road and 87, where we found ourselves a few hours later. The Shadow I ride has a large seat with an ample, curved section in the back that scoops up and cradles the rider, providing a little support for your lower back. This is a cruiser, meant for the over 40, girls-gone-wide crowd, for more relaxed riding. This is not a racer bike that zips past you with the rider bent into the wind for maximum thrill. So the seat is designed for comfort and support. This is the seat I was sitting in at the intersection of Old Greensboro Road and 87, when the rain came (the rain behind the column that wasn't on the radar when we left). This seat, shaped like a bowl, is perfect -- perfect! -- for gathering rain water. So as we pulled out of the gas station and headed back down the road, the rain came lightly at first. Our last trip, if you remember, was nothing but rain for four days. We could handle this. But I didn't WANT to. I wanted a nice, pleasant ride. But the rain came down, like needles, stinging my neck and my fingers. The drops were small, I guess, because they even stung my legs through my jeans. In a couple of minutes, I was soaked through. And on my left leg, the boots hit the jeans just so, such that there was a small fold in the jeans at the boot line, and that fold allowed the water to collect for a few seconds, and then drip onto my shin and into my boot. My right foot stayed dry, but the left felt a single, cold drip every few seconds that seeped down to my socks and sat there. Cold. The bowl/seat filled with water, puddling between my thighs. If you were to fill your tub with an inch of cold water and then sit in it, with your jeans on, and then turn on the shower -- that's how I felt.

But the rain was quick, and passed within a few minutes. For a couple seconds it came down very hard, and I worried we would hit an orange patch, but it never worsened, and in a very short time it was over. We would not see any more rain for the rest of the trip. But the deed was done. I was soaked to the core. And even after my body dried up a little bit, my butt never did. We arrived in Rock Hill seven hours later, and I still looked like I had peed my pants.  Motorcycle riding is so SEXY.

But that was the only negative part of our journey. Everything else was flawless. The Carolina countryside is gorgeous -- I have written about it many times. We made this exact trip two weeks ago, and the world was brown and wet. The trees have been busy in those intervening weeks, and they have sweet haloes of fresh leaves -- the tender kind that are a very light green. The forested areas look like fleece, with soft rolls created by the young, delicate leaves. We crested a hill where I had been admiring the wispy quality of the fresh growth when a magnificent dogwood appeared, stretched large across a freshly mown lawn. The startling white announced a regal presence and demanded attention. I love dogwoods for this very reason--they bloom just as the other trees are beginning to turn green, and around here, we see them tucked into forested areas, bright spots in the midst of wide swaths of dank, cheery hellos from Spring, herself.

I used to meet with a patient every Friday at 3:00. He was one of my favorite people, and he was an anchor at the end of my week to look forward to. We met for many years. He told me the fable of the dogwood tree. That its wood was used to fashion the cross of Jesus' crucifixion. At that time, it was a tall, straight tree of strong wood, perfect for such a task. But once it was used for that purpose, it was so ashamed that it never stood straight again, and that the flowers weep each year at the horror the tree wrought, leaving a dark stain on the inner creases of its petals.

Now when I see dogwoods I think of that patient, and of the beautiful myth of a tree, so shamed by the horrors humans wield that it weeps still, two millenia later.

And so we travelled on. We stopped in Richfield at a little roadside restaurant. I had begun getting crazy hungry and wondering if I would ever eat again, when the road stretched on before us, straight and empty, with fields and houses on either side. Not a business in sight for miles. Eventually we pulled into the town of Richfield and Bill spotted a little cafe. At first blush it looked like a house, and I had dismissed it, but his eagle eye caught the restaurant sign and we pulled in. It was quite possibly the worst restaurant in America. I was shocked, really, at how bad it was. Imagine the worst high school cafeteria lunch, and you might come close to this meal. Nope. We won't be going back there. Ever.

And soon enough, we were riding through Charlotte, which is just a gorgeous city. So very beautiful. And then down to Rock Hill. We were exhausted, but Bill had predicted this and found a hotel with a whirlpool IN THE ROOM. The only thing better than a hot tub at the end of a long day of riding is a PRIVATE whirlpool. Oh yes. Perfection!!

Today we are pow-wow bound, where we are sure to buy lots of beautiful things and feast on the delights of such a gathering. 

Born of moonshine

When I think of museums--both public and private--I am reminded of countless field trips and hot weekend afternoons spent at the Smithsonian, passing dioramas of scantily clad mannequins representing early man, staring up at enormous, but lifeless, statues of dinosaurs and elephants, and gazing at plexiglass boxes with clothing, tools, shards of pottery, plaster-cast bones, and taxidermied wildlife.  As a young person it was painfully boring, and the marble floors and long walks between museums exhausted me.  As a high schooler and young adult, though, I loved the learning that could be had there.  And museums, for their part, were starting to get more interesting with the opening of the African American art museum and the Air and Space museum.

I moved away from DC fifteen years ago, and, it turns out, museums have changed a bit.  Nothing--and I mean nothing--prepared me for the experience that is the NASCAR Hall of Fame.

First of all, we had only just walked up to the box office when we were already faced with choices--did we want the individual combo ticket, with a simulator ride and lunch for only a few dollars more than the regular adult ticket?  If we'd had kids or a group, the decisions were endless--tickets, lanyards, lunches--on and on with the choices.  Much debate ensued, and we settled on a plain ticket because we knew, thanks to the great and powerful Internet, that AAA members could ride the simulator for free.

The admission "ticket" was a hard card, like a credit card.  It was, in fact, called a hard card.

We walked through the doors and were immediately greeted by a host of people there to help guide us through this experience.  A very nice lady in a motorized wheel chair called us over to the turnstile where she first swiped our cards through the magic card swipe thingy.  Then she directed us to the nice gentleman just passed the turnstile, who said, "You will want to go to the right, down the stairs, to our theater.  Your experience of the NASCAR Hall of Fame starts with a 12-minute video..."  And you couldn't skip the video and turn left, as the people behind us tried to do.  Oh no.  They were stopped and quickly redirected.  The nice startbygoingright guy also directed us to the Hard Card Check In kiosks, saying that we should be sure to check in after the movie.  We went before the movie, though, because wouldn't a bunch of people need to do it at once if we waited?  So we "checked in."  First you balance your hard card on a little rack specially designed for it, and then the screen starts asking you really personal questions.  Name, birthday (with year!!!), email address, number of sexual partners and promises of handing over your firstborn to the hag in the back...  So, taking a deep breath of normal-people-just-fill-this-out, I entered all the requested data along with the blood sample and voided check.  (I'm exaggerating, but seriously--they asked a LOT of questions).

Then we were hustled over to a big green screen where they took our picture.  Finally I started to freak out.  What is this for???   The picture lady was super nice--it's just for fun!

(PS--If you're in the witness protection program, DO NOT go to the NASCAR Hall of Fame.)

The introductory video was actually pretty cool, and honestly, I would have watched it even if I hadn't been forced.  They talked about how stock-car racing was born in the south--the Appalachian mountains to be exact.  We have a proud tradition here of course. Of running moonshine.  Yep.  We started modifying cars so we could outrun the cops.  And apparently, back then, the fact that Officer Smith saw Jed driving, and recognized Jed's car, and knew he was running 'shine--apparently none of that mattered unless you were actually caught.  So in the 20s and 30s, folks made quite a living souping up cars and outrunning the popo.

And as so often happens, the men who were rebuilding their cars and racing through the streets of the Carolinas, started bragging.  And soon enough they had to prove their prowess, and runners started racing their cars in fields.  By the late 40s, the racing was formalized and NASCAR was born.

In the early 40s, though, my dad was known to race cars here and there.  I doubt it was anything he really stuck to, but I imagine there were a few summers in there when he wheeled around a dirt track or two.  My dad was an amazing driver--had driven all sorts of vehicles, from two wheels to many axles--and never met a car he didn't want to open up and make fly.

By the time I was old enough to understand what stock-car racing was, cars looked like the General Lee, and that is always what I pictured.  Of course, though, my dad would have been racing in something that looked more like something that should have a rumble seat.  And that was the video we watched on the enormous screen this morning, as cars crashed into one another and tore apart on those dusty fields of 1930s North Carolina.

Unfortunately for me, NASCAR is now synonymous with a culture that represents so much of what I don't like in this country.  The fascination with Jesus (seriously, I'm almost completely certain--certain--that Jesus isn't concerned with who wins the Daytona 500) and war (now, Jesus might actually have an opinion about that) are real turn-offs.  But the fast cars, the technology, the LOUD!!!!, and the home-grown history reach me at a core level.

I love to drive.  I love to drive fast.  And I love the fact that the drivers look like astronauts, with temperature-controlled g-force suits, gadgets and monitors all over their bodies, and rocket booster seats bolted in to amazing machines designed to withstand radical g-forces, 360-degree impacts, and even fires, without exploding the tanks filled with essentially rocket fuel.  Give me more of that!

So we started our tour in the main gallery, after many warnings to be sure to check in our hard cards at every opportunity, "to track our progress."  Progress?  What the hell?  But anyway, we mostly ignored all that and looked instead at the awesome cars lined up along the outer edge of the circular gallery.  The track starts with a 0-degree bank (flat), but by the end is at a crazy 33- degree bank.  There they have a section you can stand on, carefully surrounded by grabby railings because, although 33 degrees sounds easy, it's crazy steep.  One of the driver quotes is, "You're chasing the track all the way around.  And you can never catch it."

And then we were upstairs where they have interactive displays.  We were met at every turn by very assertive and helpful staff, who snatched our cards and registered us for all sorts of fun.  I got to "change" a tire by operating the lug nut thingamajiggy while Bill operated the jack and also ran behind me to fill the tank.  We did it all in 28 seconds.  Having arrived just as they opened, we were the first adults of the day, so our 28 seconds made it on the victory board.

We wanted our free simulator ride (thank you AAA!), but first we had to qualify.  Really?  Yes!  So we stood in line for the qualifiers, watching everyone before us wipe out and go spinning across the digital grass.  Again the hard card was entered and we raced on software that looks a lot like the racing game I have downloaded on this very iPad where I'm typing this blog.

Then we stopped at the place where you get to announce a race.  So while the screen displays real race footage, we were expected to act like announcers.  They offer you the same footage with real announcers as an example.  Here's what I sound like announcing a race (the simulator reminded me we want to paint a pictures with words, for those who can't see the race):  "There's a yellow car, and a white car...  Ooh!  The yellow car is going really fast!"  Bill, my fellow announcer, breaks in.  " Honey, that car is orange."  And, " Oh no!  The yellow car is about to hit--ooh!  It HIT the white car!  It really shouldn't do that..."   And then Bill, "Holy cow!  What a hit!"  And so on.  The recording played back and Bill and I dissolved into giggles, attracting the attention of the nice Canadian family passing by.

And then it was off to the simulator, with the seat rumbling and the loud loud roar of the engine in your ear, and the lady next to me who so didn't want to be there.  Her grumbling was hilarious as she swore at the gear shift and argued with the seat adjustment.  "Drivers, start your engines!!!"  VAROOOOOM!

We walked through the rest of it, touching tools and car parts, and watching footage of amazing wrecks where the drivers just got out of their cars and walked off the (crazy-steep) tracks.  As we left, we had to "check out," so again with the hard card, and now we got to see how many points we'd made and where we were in the line-up.  WHAT?  This was some sort of competition?  Aye carrumba, why would I want to compete for my Hall of Fame experience?

But regardless, it was a great time.  I got to think of my dad, I got to wield seriously heavy tools and, I got to go varoom varoom.

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!