DAY 1
Miles: 298 including ferries
Day one, Trans America Trail. I’ve been here before so it seems familiar, yet it’s new because I’m on a bike this time. The way it should be. I leave the motel and begin a 60 mile ride down the Outer Banks Scenic Byway to the first of two ferry rides that connect the outer bank ports-of-call. But before that I must navigate the small seaside towns and their abundant gift shops, ice cream stands, and dockside food attractions, all vying for my attention with flags and banners of all shapes and sizes. Looking like a shimmering ocean of plastic next to, ironically, a shimmering ocean.
As I arrive to the Hatteras ferry station, I am ushered to the front of the line ahead of 40 or so vehicles. Being on a bike usually has its benefits when crossing by ferry. We load up and the heat of the day is extinguished by cool ocean air as soon as we back away from the dock. The sea is calm and the ferry rides like the proverbial Cadillac every dad has ever referenced.
I watch a seagull glide next to us. Upon further review I see he’s a cunning aviator, riding the uplift off a vehicle’s windshield as the ferry plows forward. A constant source of ridge lift allowing unpowered flight. How appropriate given our proximity to the birthplace of aviation. Wilbur and Orville would have taken notes.
A short ride down the length of Okracoke Island and after a stop at SmacNally’s Waterfront Bar and Grill for the best cheeseburger of the last 4,700 miles, I am again on a ferry. This time from Okracoke to Cedar Island, my reconnect point to the mainland. It’s a longer trip this time, a measly $10 for two hours and fifteen minutes of letting someone else do the driving.
I find some shade, sit back in my favorite camp chair, don some foam ear plugs, and drift off to the drone of the diesel engines. Both in my ears and through my feet via the steel deck on the boat. Course change. The shade moves. I find a new spot.
After hitting the mainland, I made my way to someplace I’ve been looking forward to visiting for 4 years. It was a campground I stumbled upon that turned out to be the best group of people I met my entire trip. It’s called Taste of Heaven RV park and campground. I made a video about it on my YouTube channel that very first night on the TAT in 2018. Since then they say they’ve had a lot of TAT riders stop in. If you are starting your TAT trip from Cape Hatteras via the ferry system, I recommend this place as your first night's stay.
I’m in my tent, listening to the chorus of frogs, crickets, and what sounds like 100 other things. They start quietly, slowly build to a crescendo, then taper off until the cycle repeats. Each time a different creature taking the lead. I’m thankful there is no chance of rain tonight. I left the rain fly off and cherish every breeze that pushes through my tent fabric. The season is still early, yet there remains a stickiness to the night air that reminds you that this region is no stranger to humidity. A place where direct contact to your air mattress creates damp skin like a rotisserie chicken under a heat lamp. Don’t forget your sleeping bag liner.
I will drift off to the frogs and the insects as they replace the droning engines from earlier in the day. Tomorrow is more pavement. A necessary evil to get through the developed eastern seaboard to the less travelled two-track that awaits me not tomorrow, but the day after.
Good night.
DAY 2
Miles: 232
The morning starts much in the way the previous one ended. A chorus of frogs are already awake and croaking before breakfast. The flies are also here. In force. Small black gnats in swarms that have Alaska natives taking notice. Luckily they don’t seem to bite, but they love ear canals. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzpt. I carry two mosquito head nets. I never carry only one of such an important item.
The breakfast joint this morning is picked via a method I call “Garmin Roulette”. I turn on my GPS, Search>Restaurants> and pick something that sounds interesting. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don't. I pick a place right up the road called the Triangle Waffle. I admire their large billboard placed directly in front of the Cracker Barrel almost entirely blocking it from view and proclaiming “Triangle Waffle. Where locals eat”. Almost daring you to not support your local mom-n-pop establishment. It turns out to be a good choice. A place where no one has a first name. You are darlin’, sugar, sweetheart, hun, or baby. And I like that just fine.
Just outside of Carthage, N.C. I see a doe and her fawn crossing the road in front of me. The mother darts to the left and the foe goes into its natural defensive posture, to cower down and be still. Except it’s in the road and realizes that is not the best strategy. As I slow to a stop, it clumsily walks off the road on legs that make Bambi walking on ice look sure footed. The only time I’ve ever seen a smaller fawn was a newborn on TV. It could only be a matter of a few days old. It disappears into the brush and I continue on, another friendly reminder that animals and motorcycles are better friends when not making contact.
In Eagle Springs I’m enticed into a u-turn by a sign for Kalawi Farms Homemade Peach Ice Cream. Oh what the heck, I’ll give it a try. I’m a sucker for roadside farm stands and local goods. You add ice cream to the mix and I'm sold. My limited extra space for cargo keeps my spending in check. I think I’ll mail my camera and case home as soon as I cross a town big enough to find a UPS store.
Arriving in Candor, N.C., I see a waypoint on my map that I marked four years ago: “Picnic area, clean bathroom, electricity.” I remember it. I did a walk around video of my truck awning last time I was here and was impressed with the location’s cleanliness. I am pleasantly surprised that the spot has remained well looked after. The bathroom was clean, it even had fresh soap and a bag in the waste bin. This is a great stopping point if for any reason you need 110v power to charge something. I count no less than 70 weatherproof outlets available.
Tar snakes! Tar snakes, in case you don’t know, are those ribbons of black filler that road crews use to seal cracks in pavement here in the U.S. The ones I found today were the consistency of a good warm brownie. They are no fun in the corners, the most inconsistent surface to ride on. I would have much rather been on gravel.
Speaking of which, I found myself on a few gravel sections today. Nothing life altering but certainly a nice change of pace and a peak at what is up ahead.
The afternoon turned cloudy, a result of a system crossing west to east, south of my location. I got a few sprinkles but nothing got wet for more than a minute or two. The roads for tomorrow should remain in good condition.
I shed 22 pounds today by sending my top box and camera gear home. I just wasn’t utilizing it enough to make it worth carrying. Being a photographer, I had grand intentions of stopping to take some great photos along the way. However, as I discovered, stopping to get off the bike, take my gloves off, open my case, get out the camera, set up my shot and put it all away really detracts from the riding enjoyment. It is better suited for when I'm in my truck. The iPhone will be the primary shooter for the rest of the trip.
I’m in for a steak at the locally recommended steakhouse then I’m going to do a quick reset of my pannier contents, just to keep things tidy. Tomorrow I start the good stuff, entering the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Thanks for joining me.
Good night.
DAY 3
Miles: 200
The alarm goes off at 0600, and I think to myself “who’s the idiot that did that?” It was me. The bed is almost comfortable enough to lull me back to sleep but I get a move on anyway.
I have no interest in the Continental breakfast so I get on the road after a gas stop. The morning is brisk. Fifty five degrees but it feels colder. It’s a wet fifty five. You can sense the moisture in the air. I zip up my jacket vents and click on the grip heaters, a luxury accessory I have been thankful for installing many times on this trip.
As I wind my way through the outskirts of town towards my eventual release from pavement, I recognize a spot of road. Oh my gosh, this is it! This is the exact spot I got my truck stuck while stopping to take a photo back in 2018. I won’t be making that mistake today!
It feels good to be on gravel again. As I make my way in a slow climb up the mountain, there are almost no straight sections here. A right into a left into another right. Back and forth I go. What dappled sunlight reaches the ground makes judging terrain difficult in some spots. A light and shadow camouflage that hides football-sized rocks half buried in the road. They are few though and I enjoy a relaxing morning ride surrounded by tall trees and a now comfortable 67° mountain air. The trees break for a moment and I catch my first view of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
There is a popular hiking trail nearby and it’s a Saturday so I encounter a half dozen or so vehicles on the road in the opposite direction. Each passing at a blind curve serves as a reinforcement for the “ride right” BDR safety campaign. A practice of staying to the right any time you can’t see ahead, over a rise, or around a corner has saved me several times.
As I enter the village of Linville Falls, I discover my breakfast location for today at Famous Louise’s Rock House. Established in 1936, it resides at the intersection of three counties where you can park in one, eat in another, and walk to the register and pay your bill in a third. I look up from my plate to see a teenage boy, the son of the waitress, staring at me as I put my phone down. I’m caught taking a photo of my breakfast. Damn. Man card, revoked.
Climbing higher, I pass the village of Little Switzerland, a…..wait for it…Swiss-inspired hamlet perfect for grabbing the attention of the passing tourist. I am near the top of the mountain and the view is incredible. You can see at least four or five ridges into the distance, each getting a little fainter. The route I’m on intersects the Blue Ridge Parkway in many spots and the motorcycles are out en mass, typically rumbling loudly in groups of 10 or more. Solo for me, thank you.
I spend a couple hours winding through the woods, I’ve aired down to my preferred 20 psi front/23 psi rear tire pressures. Soft enough to absorb the gravel marbles on the surface but firm enough to stave off the unseen pothole or rock and avoid getting a pinch flat. And I can still run short sections at highway speed safely.
When I’m following a line I put on the map, I will inevitably blow past a turn and have to double back after getting absorbed in the scenery. Today that happened several times but as luck would have it, it resulted in finding a great early dinner spot. It’s Dave’s 209 and it’s right on the TAT. If you go, try the Burgerito, that’s all I’m saying.
I’ve been trying to gauge the daily progress on the bike as compared to in my truck last time. I must be making significantly faster progress on the bike because I reached tonight’s camp spot at about 1730 as opposed to past dark when I was in the truck. This time, instead of popping the truck tent on a random side road I’m in the Pigeon River Campground. Wilderness and solitude it is not, but bathrooms and showers are nice. I don’t really complain about being in a campground because as soon as I do some guy, like Jeff did just now, will walk up and say something like, ”Man, that’s the life. Just riding your bike and hangin’ your hammock.”
And you know, he’s damn right.
Good night.
DAY 4
Miles: 262
No alarm today. I wake up and my air mattress is not as full as it was last night. It’s not flat but it’s so close it’s annoying. Like a sibling in the back seat of a road trip station wagon singing “I’m not touching you” with their finger almost touching you. It wasn’t a cheap mattress and the fact that it’s not doing it’s only job is upsetting. It’s the one piece of gear that makes tent camping bearable. Being off the ground. I decide to get a cheap motel tonight and leave the mattress on the bike to think about it’s actions.
I look up to see over a dozen daddy long legs have sought refuge between the rain fly and the top of my tent. I flick them off from the inside and more make the climb from the grass around my tent. At least they are harmless. When I finally get out of the tent I keep finding more. They filled my boots too. They must have liked the residual warmth of the motorcycle and crawled into every crevice because all day they would creep out and get sucked off the bike in the slipstream.
Today's route is one of the best sections of the eastern side of the TAT. The Great Smoky Mountains. Through places like Maggie Valley, Cherokee National Forest, Andrews, and Tellico Plains. It seems as if almost every mile I travel is next to a creek, stream, or river. Rivers so beautiful that any one of them would be considered a jewel in other parts of the country but here even I begin to take them for granted for the simple fact that there will be another one around the next corner.
On occasion, the riding gets so good through the mountains on these trails I have to remind myself to take a break. My favorite thing to do when I get deep into the woods and all I hear is my bike chugging along faithfully is stop, turn off the engine, rip off my helmet, and just listen. A breeze through the trees, water cascading down rounded boulders covered in moss, birds chirping, squirrels chasing each other up and down the trunks of maple trees. All the things we otherwise forget to take in while we ride. I remind myself to take more breaks to listen to nature.
After missing a turnoff from the highway and waiting to do a u-turn, four kitted-out adventure bikes pass me and turn where I should have. I wave but they couldn’t be bothered I guess to wave back. They were in quite the hurry as I gave them space but tried to match their pace. I gave up, and had an internal conversation asking why anyone would want to be in such a hurry to blast by all the scenery at speeds that make it impossible to appreciate? We leap frogged for a couple hours, me passing them when they took a break and them passing me when they caught back up. I always pulled to the side as soon as I caught the headlights in my mirror of the freight train of four. Always giving an acknowledgment but never getting anything in return but a dust cloud. We all have different ways of experiencing life on two wheels.
Today I’m feeling a strong bond with my bike. Much like Marines form a bond over getting each other through hardships, my bike has been a reliable battle buddy. I’m going to trip over 20,000 miles in a day or two after 8 months of riding. But today through these trails I really feel a sense of connection. I know what to expect from the bike, how much I can push it into a gravel corner before it wants to teach me a lesson. The suspension is dialed in, the seat is great, the bars are adjusted to fit my ergonomics. Whenever I cringe right before eating that monster pot hole that I didn’t see until the last moment, the bike answers back with “I got this”.
I pass a cabin in the mountains and they have a fireplace going. I smell memories. I smell winter and hot chocolate and flannel pajamas. I smell warm blankets on couches and a dog sleeping by the fire light. Memories in a smell.
It’s getting later and the thick treetop canopy makes it appear darker than it really is. Perfect for fireflies to do their thing. Blink. Blink. One of nature’s phenomenons, an insect that can create light from chemicals. Little glow stick bugs. They flash in front of me and beside me but so quickly you wonder if you actually saw it. Like a shooting star you just caught a glimpse of out of your periphery. I pass a group of kids trying to catch them in mason jars. I give them a ring of approval with my bicycle chime. So much friendlier than my air horn.
As I reach asphalt for the last time today, I enjoy some twisty road before reaching town. I partake in some spirited riding, as the Tenere 700 is actually a fantastic canyon carving bike. More so than anyone would think. I pick up speed, but nothing crazy. The lightning bugs are now lines instead of dots. Into town and I pack away my shenanigans for another time. The air is cool and still. Smoke from chimneys and restaurants hang motionless, stuck in the valleys. Not enough breeze to reach escape velocity.
I pull into my spot at the Motor Inns of America, where the toilet is misaligned to the wall, the blanket has weird stains, and that damn air mattress is out on the bike where it belongs.
Good night.
DAY 5
Miles: 82 rough ones.
I stayed up way too late last night. I neglected the importance of getting to bed early and waking up early. It’s always my plan to start early and make my milage goal to allow enough time on the backside to find camp or a motel in the daylight. I also appreciate the extra padding it gives me in case I need to fix a flat or make an unforeseen detour.
Speaking of detours, I’m bypassing the Witt Road section leaving Tellico Plains. I hate to be bypassing anything but I’ve done the water crossings alone before in my truck and I’m not in the mood to lift a 700lb bike if I dump it in the water. The algae on the rocky crossing is no joke. Search for it on YouTube, there’s probably a compilation video. The chance to get water in my engine and ruin the rest of my trip if the worst case scenario plays out just isn’t appealing to me.
I finally get around to setting the clock on the dash from west coast time. Only about a month late.
As I arrive in Reliance on the bank of the Hiwassee River, I pull into a 1930s Texaco station to top off fuel for the day. It’s a pump first pay second affair and its on the honor system that you report how much you pumped to the lady inside. I wish things were still like this everywhere. I was born in the wrong era.
I have to look at the pump an extra second, it’s been awhile since I’ve operated this vintage of gas pump. I remove the handle, flip the lever, and internally the pump motor whirrs to life. I enjoy the direct connection between the squeeze of my fingers and the rotation of the analog numbers on the dial. I can feel the pulsations of the pump in the palm of my hand. I love and appreciate old mechanical items that continue to do the job they were made for and this makes me happy.
Two Australians ride up on a DR650 and a DRZ400, and they happen to be the same guys who left a comment on a previous days recap on a Facebook posting. We introduce ourselves and make the usual TAT small talk about where we started the day, and how far we plan on going.
It turns out my apprehension about the water crossing held merit after all. They had just spent two hours disassembling the DRZ after a brief submarine exercise. The moss on the rocks claims another one. I feel validated in my judgement to not hit the water crossing alone, even if it was at the expense of another rider to prove my point.
Me made a plan to ride together since we’re going the same way. For some reason my records show I had to skip this section four years ago so it will be all new to me. I’m slightly hesitant to join them and I don’t want to be the annoying third wheel but we ride out together on the next section.
Immediately I can tell that my pace is far slower than theirs. I always ride alone so I am my own pace keeper. It’s not that I can’t ride as fast, it’s just that I’m not used to it and it’s slightly out of my comfort zone. Keep in mind, until 8 months ago I had taken a 22-year break from riding. Aside from my bike setup being slightly heavier and my tires being less aggressive there’s no reason I can’t push my boundaries a little. We make our way up the mountain and it becomes evident this part of the trail is different from the last 800 miles. The trail is chunky. There are rocks. Loose ones on top and stationary ones embedded in the surface. In my head I constantly think “no pinch flats, just no pinch flats. Oh and don’t crash.” On the very first climb we reach the toughest section. I mean me. They’ve already blasted through it and reached the top. I look up and see the obstacle and know immediately I’m on the wrong line. If I continue I’ll make a bad line worse. Hard on the brakes I stop at my last decision point. I kill the engine and leave the bike in gear. I play the clutch in and out of the friction zone, using the engine's compression to back the bike down the hill since the front brake at this point is useless with all the weight on the rear tire. I’m extra cautious about not putting a foot in a rut where I wouldn’t be able to touch the ground. When I’m back far enough to get a good run up the hill I snap a photo. I’m immediately disappointed at the way the camera flattens the hill. When others see it they won’t be as impressed as I am by what I perceive as the monster before me. I take a good long look at my route, imagine the line, and consider the ramifications of it going wrong. I’m like the meme of the guy thinking with all the calculations flashing on the screen.
A little gas, up on the pegs. Shift to second and let her eat. I hit my line perfectly and for a moment I’m a hero in my own mind. I work my way up the hill over ruts and rocks, only feeling mostly in control, not completely. At the top, the Australian duo are waiting for me, just to make sure I made it. What a couple of legends.
The rest of the day my confidence soars, and the bar for which I measure my own abilities is raised. I begin to trust my brakes and tires deeper into turns, and can now keep pace as a trio. Thanks to chasing the two Aussies, my skills level up today and I made some new friends. Thanks guys.
We split a campsite and grab a bite to eat. Back at camp we get an evening thunderstorm. Everything should be clear by the time we leave tomorrow. The fireflies are out again and the creek next to our tents is lulling me to sleep. It’s even close to covering up the the Australian’s snoring.
Good night.
DAY 6
Miles: I forgot to check. Not enough.
The day begins with a rustling from my camp mates. It’s about 0600 and I appreciate waking up a little earlier than normal. The temp is good and I slept well despite the ongoing air mattress situation. It held air this night but just barely. I’m exploring options.
We begin the typical camp routine of packing things up. Each man having his own process. I like to think my method is pretty efficient, honed over the last 6 months of unpacking and repacking, figuring out which bags fit where, and how to compartmentalize my primary “3-bag” layout.
We finish just in time for the clouds to figure out they’ve had enough of carrying so much water, and it gets released from overhead. The first indication is when the trees get loud. They are tall, and the leaves in the canopy get impacted first, elevating the ambient noise in the campground. Then the trees release the drops off the tips of their leaves to complete what we learned in grade school as the rain cycle. And then motorcyclists get wet.
The three of us sit on the bench outside the restroom, the only cover we have in the area. Each of us equally unenthusiastic about the prospect of riding in the rain today, and not wanting to be the first to get going. I grab a quick look at the radar and give in to the fact that I’m just going to be wet today. I tell the boys I’m off and I hope they have a safe ride, see you up the road. Two more Australians added to the list of why Aussies are my favorite people. I’m solo again, and I’m going to pick up where we left the trail yesterday.
I get on the road that takes me around the lake and where I connect to the trail. Rain is great when you’re watching it from the porch. Not when your visor is fogged up and has water on both sides of it. I reach the trail and the trees take the edge off the persistent rainfall. I’m going slow enough now to ride with the visor up and not be pelted in the face.
My gloves are wet all the way through because I refuse to put on my Gortex gloves. They are warm and dry but a bit clumsy. For off road I want dexterity, even if it means wet hands. I make a fist and squeeze water out, then click on the grip heaters.
At about 15 miles in, I’m cautious but optimistic on the trail’s ability to hold the amount of water it’s getting. I look down at the small 1-2” streams that cross the forest road. I imagine myself in an airliner looking down on big rivers, it looks the same, but in miniature. As my confidence in the coefficient of friction between the trail and my tires increases, the trail now has other ideas. A long uphill section looms in front of me as I round the bend, I gently twist my wrist and accelerate up the hill. Half way up I can tell the surface is different. It’s a different color, texture, and most importantly, it wants to kill me. Like riding a skateboard on a hippopotamus, the road wants no part of me being on top of it. My rear tire is not made for this, and it tries to be in any location other than directly in line with its partner in the front. At this point decisions must be made quickly. Apply too much power and I spin the tire and give up forward momentum. Too little power and I don’t get up the hill, probably sliding all the way down like kids on a summer time slip-n-slide but instead made of mud and motorcycle pieces. I make it to the top with a huge sigh of relief. My next thought has to do with wondering what’s to come and I can’t turn back, and some cussing about rain. There has been and will be much cussing about rain today. Before I can find a branch road back to the main highway there will be three more uphills like this and one downhill. All of them having my front and rear tires wanting to go in different directions worse than opposite magnets.
Once I get back to pavement, I make tracks for the next main town up the road at Dalton, GA. Once there, I grab breakfast at Cracker Barrel and evaluate the options. I meet a couple traveling on their Harley in leather and denim. I am immediately thankful for Gortex. Even though I’ve been in the rain for hours, I’m still dry under the surface where it counts. The TAT swings in near Chattanooga only 26 miles up the road. There’s a storm cell headed that way of course but at this point what’s wet can’t get wetter and what’s dry will stay that way.
I jump on my phone and find a cheap motel on a sketchy cul de sac. I guess maybe I like the excitement of guessing wether or not my bike will be there in the morning. I plot the address into my Garmin and click “avoid highways”. If I get caught in a downpour on the way, I’d rather not be next to a semi truck doing 70. Plus, backroads are better.
As soon as I leave Dalton the rain stops. I make a detour to link back towards the TAT and ride it to Chattanooga. Mother Nature must have seen me and laughed, because it started raining harder than before. I give up for today. I cuss the rain dripping inside my helmet as I turn back towards my previous backroad route to the motel, and it promptly stops raining again. It didn’t rain again all the way to Chattanooga, and the the air was fresh and renewed. I especially recall the smell of railroad ties stacked between the track and the roadside, oozing with creosote. Definitely a nostalgic smell.
Surprisingly just across the street and down a block I see an REI store. I check in to the motel and head to REI for, you guessed it, a new sleeping pad. I’m greeted by an older guy and I explain the sleeping situation. He looks at my outfit and asks what I’m riding. He understands my needs as he too rides and has a Husky 501 he does some light ADV riding with. The cool thing here is the elevated platform where you can try out all the different sleeping pads and see what works for you. Now, I could easily look at each model and pretty quickly narrow down which ones I think would be most comfortable judging by their looks alone. But I would be wrong. Brand names aside, thicker definitely wasn’t better as I would have guessed. One of the thinner models, REI’s own branded pad was a foam and air combo that felt more comfortable than the more expensive brands and didn’t feel like I was laying on an inflatable pool toy. I was surprised, but like a girl’s night out at a wine tasting party, I tested all of them.
I’m settled into the motel and drying out gear. Everything removed from the bike and the cloak of invisibility (motorcycle cover) installed. Tomorrow’s weather outlook looks uninspiring. There is currently a string of thunderstorms from my current position extending west along the TAT for 400 miles to Little Rock, AR. But I’m not discouraged. I’m living a part of my life that many others dream of doing and by telling my story I’m in a small way taking them on the adventure too. So I’ll buckle down, cuss at the rain, and press on tomorrow.
Good night.
DAY 7
Miles: 263
Today marks a week on the TAT. I’m one day behind where I was 4 years ago but it never rained on that trip. I look outside and thankfully my bike is still there. I didn’t trust it in the parking lot so I put it behind the big electrical transformer box by my room and put the cover on it. Practically invisible.
This morning I’m meeting the Aussies at RT Cycle in Chattanooga for some maintenance. We all need something. I’m within a few miles of my 6,000 mile oil change, Murph needs an oil change and a blinker on the DR-Z and Hugh got a tire and some miscellaneous bits. They opened at nine and I got there just after. The guys were already there and the store was open but the mechanics weren’t in yet. Once we spoke to the staff that were there everyone became very friendly and we were made to feel right at home. Before the mechanics arrived we were offered the use of an open lift if we cared to work on our own bikes ourselves. I didn’t even ask because that is unheard of at big city dealers. What, with insurance and lawsuits these days. But I quickly took up the offer as I prefer to do the work myself, just need a spot to do it. I purchased oil and a filter and knocked out an oil change and chain adjustment in no more than twenty five or thirty minutes. The Tenere is dead simple to maintain and I love that. I passed 20,000 trouble free miles today. 6,400 in the last five weeks.
Next we attacked Mike’s DR-Z, him doing the oil and me getting to the blinker. The shop had a whole box of used signals and we picked one that would work. It’s still eating at me that we didn’t change the other one to match.
After a bit of time, we took some photos for the memories and said our thank you’s for their generous use of the shop. The mechanics did show up shortly after opening and were very happy to leave us to run around the place like we worked there. The entire staff was very kind and understood life on the road. I would suggest you look them up and put a pin on your TAT map just in case.
The boys were staying another night in Chattanooga and I was taking advantage of the clear weather to make some progress down the trail. I’m sure they will catch back up.
The route today is mostly paved, a side effect of the fact you just can’t connect the whole country by dirt anymore. Or not in a practical way anyway. It takes me 103 miles before I see a piece of gravel road, and It doesn’t last but a quarter mile.
The route took me past a beautiful little regional airport. With its sole runway surrounded by beautifully kept grass and a small section of hangars to the side. Their doors open in the warm eighty two degree weather, proudly showing off to each other all manner of single engine v-tail doctor killers.
As I pass one of the many farmhouses along today’s route, a clearly overweight golden retriever slowly walks to the edge of the yard and lays in the grass to watch me go by. Heavily laden by what I’d guess would be plenty of table scraps, not a single bark or mean bone in its chubby body. Two houses down their dog meets me at the corner and insists on racing me to the far end of the yard. I oblige, and only go fast enough to let it beat me to the end, that way it’ll have something to brag about to his friends. I ring the bicycle chime as a salute to the win.
I’m noticing now that I’ve left the mountains and reached flatter land, the rivers are no longer crystal clear but have taken on the color of coffee with two creams, no sugar.
I take a break to top off the tank and notice a pay-n-spray do it yourself type car wash across the street. I take the opportunity to spray off the bike and all my bags that have been collecting trail mud. While I’m there I start to plan where tonight’s stop will be. Up ahead is a campground I stayed at the first TAT trip but there’s an issue. Milage wise, I would probably make it there on the TAT after dark because of the late start oil change. But, as I look at the radar, there is a storm system that is the size of the entire state of Arkansas headed that way from the west. If I had any chance of making it to camp and not set up while getting rained on, I’d have to slab it to the campground. Since I know this section of trail from doing it before, I’m ok with skipping it to get closer to the good stuff. I’m now racing to Pickwick State Park to beat the storm and get hunkered down.
First things first, I quickly pull over to inflate my tires back to pressures suitable for racing storm clouds. Then I’m off. I plot the campground in the Garmin and pray the GPS doesn’t let me down. Garmin and I have a bit of history together. Let’s just say some of his routing has been questionable but most are ok. Today, Garmin’s route needs to be right on the money if I expect to win this race to a dry camp.
My cockpit layout is a situational awareness dream right now. The phone mounted up high, showing a continuously updating high resolution weather radar picture, the speedometer down and to the left with fuel and temps, and the course plotted on GPS flanking it to the right. A full glass cockpit like a shoestring budget open cockpit fighter jet.
One by one the towns come and go, each time as I reach the town boundaries the speed limit decreases to fifty five, adding valuable time to my ETA. I use the towns like time hacks. Pulaski, Lawrenceburg, Waynesboro, Savannah. As I pass each one I judge how far the storm has moved. It’s going to be close. The radar creeps forward with each refresh, nothing stops the weather.
I get a blocker. The "blocker" is the SUV that willingly drives over the speed limit that I can tail at the same speed, at a distance, hoping that he will get caught on any speed traps before me. Fifty percent of the time, it works all the time.
We’re cruising now. I tuck in behind the windscreen and remember being 19 and stupid on a crotch rocket. I’m in the bubble. That calm air inside which you are free from wind buffeting, the top of the windscreen intersecting my sight line, I can glance over it at the road ahead or I can glance down at the looming storm on the radar picture.
The storm and I are racing to a common middle ground, like scenes you see in movies of two medieval armies about to clash on the field of battle. Except my clash is taking place on a hundred-mile battlefield.
As I near Savannah, my last waypoint before turning south to the campground, something magical develops. The northern portion of the storm is completing its lifecycle and the lightning indicators are diminishing from the radar. I arrive at the campground as the storm passes to my south. The portion over the campsite collapses and dissipates without so much as a drop left to give.
I’m relieved. I just got my gear dry from the last storm. I focus on finding a campsite and there’s only one other person here. The showers are hot but I start warm and creep it colder and colder. Daring myself to get to full cold right before I turn it off. So refreshing in the humid after-rain night air. Small waves lapping at the shoreline and more fireflies are the features of the evening. Off to try out my new sleeping pad. See you tomorrow.
Good night.
