The Eastern Ride About: Episode One – Home to the Ohio

My soft breath steamed in the nipping air of the twilight. My body shivered slightly and I pictured returning to bed with my sweetheart. It would be her birthday in a couple of days, our anniversary the week after, and another week until Halloween. Before falling asleep last night, we embraced and she told me to have a good time, but her worried eyes revealed her feelings. We had considered this trip for over a week. I’d taken rides like this before and she trusted that the man who came back would be restored and improved. But as my endeavor approached, our discussions would get terse and avoidant. She doubted the distance and she disliked the toll it would take on me. I was going anyway. Confrontation isn’t her strongest point.

 I left the comfort of my soft sheets and blanket, early enough the birds had the sense to stay asleep. There were still some preparations before setting off. If not for the contrast of wardrobe, you would have thought I was a benediction friar tending to morning prayers. My head hung low as I muttered quietly to myself.

“I think I left my better mind still dreaming in bed.”

 My hands moved over my motorcycle like a steed I had known from a foal. I had inflated the tires the night before, the gauge still reading thirty-six pounds. I didn’t rely on the sight glass for the oil since the bike needed to warm up, but I remembered I had checked it when parking Thursday night. My top box held the only calories I prepared. A 12 pack of small ice blue sports drinks and a box of outdoor snack bars made a snug fit next to my duffle. I appreciated my thermal and waterproof layers already zipped into my jacket. We would be riding through a light fog and maybe drizzle. I planned to be out of the weather and maybe even the state by 10 am. Once I left the area’s I already knew we’d ride until my ass gave out, or the boredom overtook me. A gloomy part of me hoped it might be both.

The stage I set for myself would be my longest ride. Fourteen states in three days was a challenge any seasoned rider could respect. After riding for just over two years I never really felt I had arrived as a motorcyclist. My biggest fear was I was a fake, a phony, a poser, or that I was kidding everyone around me. I hardened my ass on long trips before but never more than eight or nine hours a day and never questioned where my destination would be.  I’d never ridden motorcycles as a kid. I daydreamed of what it could feel like to have the wind rushing past me; to “have my ass hanging out in the air” as my dad would say. Wow, I missed him. Just over a year ago he went to the big party in the sky. He was always proud of me but I couldn’t help wondering if I was a rider in his eyes. I planned for weeks; plotting my route, scheduling my stops, scouting out cots and seedy highway inns. But here I was. All that was behind me, and I was going to prove what kind of rider. I was by swinging my leg over biting off the biggest chomp of America I could.

 I pushed the bike off the center stand and clicked the ignition switch down to run. Bursts of yellow, orange, and green orbs illuminated my visor. I pushed the starter to hear a churning whine for about a half-second until the bike thundered to life. The bike osculated and shook left to right, and surged when I rolled my right hand back. The wear on the grips and numbers on the odometer didn’t bother me as long as I could feel that strong thrumming down and in front of me. I shifted my weight to my right foot, squeezed my left hand to pull in the clutch, and with an affirmative *clunk* kicked the shift lever down into first. I rolled my weight back to center and after steadying myself, fed a little gas as I feathered the clutch to motivate us both forward and down the street.

The first leg consisted of riding roads I had seen for the last fifteen years. Maryland can be a boring confluence of interstates even in the best of times. 95 and its variants, 70, and 81 all cross the state making for quick progression marching toward the foothills.  The western shore, as we call it, starts at the bay with tidal rivers and wet weather cuts and then transitions into a corridor of built-up civilization before moving into rolling hills and farmland. It’s not until you reach Frederick that you sight what qualifies as an “actual” mountain. In my youth, I crisscrossed these foothills and rivers with everything from a beat-up old truck to an underpowered but spunky Honda. Once you cross the first two ridges, Interstate 70 drops into a wide valley. This valley runs like the spine of the Appalachians. In it, you find some of the best-known cities in the mountains. Harrisburg Pennsylvania, that state’s capitol, Winchester, Harrisonburg, and Lexington Virginia are all nestled in this land between the ridges. My first waypoint was Hagerstown, an important junction because it was the farthest on Interstate 70 I had been on this bike.

 I bought the bike, a BMW R1200RT, for this specific kind of trip. The piercing front fairing and abundance of storage made its purpose obvious at first sight. It’s a handsome rig but taste is subjective. What isn’t subjective is the big-bore boxer bolted between the cross members. If you’ve never ridden one, imagine you’re sitting atop an ice-cream churner until you roll away from a stop and a hand grabs you by the grundel and thrusts you forward through space like a shot putt. It’s rough and smooth all at once. Not gritty or violent, but effortless and deliberate. I like it.   

 The first weekend we spent together was making a friendly shakedown loop out to Hagerstown, down to Winchester, and then back east across the mountains. But passing through on this trip, 81 didn’t even feel like a milestone. It barely felt like a mile. We were eating these early miles for breakfast, existing on the sustenance of asphalt, gas, and diesel fumes. Before I realized it, we crested to the rest stop at Sideling Hill. An expansive panorama opened before us as I stopped to look back. I stepped off the bike to snap a quick photo.  The Potomac had been a welcome mat beckoning us into the hills and ridges.  The odometer read 115 miles; a healthy commute, and a long day’s ride for some. For me, it was just the beginning.

By this first stop, the bike and I had reached a sort of harmony. Despite its relative “newness”, it was damned intuitive to operate. I’d certainly used more complicated machines like an Xbox or an inner-city parking kiosk. However, it still took its chances to remind me it was worthy of respect, especially at slow speeds and in places my stubby legs had a disadvantage…like that parking lot.

After leaving the rest stop, my next objective was a gas stop just over the West Virginia border and there was still plenty of Maryland to go. 70 turned north back in Hancock; so now we were rolling west on 68. The freeway roughly follows the footprint of the old National Road. There are occasional banked turns as the interstate cuts through the mountains. The pioneers cut the original path with mules and wagons in the 1800s. Now people zip by at 70ish miles per hour.

We began to slow down and descended into the sleepy town of Cumberland. Seen from the top of the ridge, Cumberland is like stepping back in time. Causeways lift the interstate over downtown, making it possible to see the rows of red brick homes, factories, and the old train yard. The prominent Masonic Lodge commands a hilltop near the center of town, overlooking the town like a looming protector and reminder of expectations or civic duty. I had been to Cumberland once as a child to ride the train up to Frostburg and passed through from time to time on my way to ski at Deep Creek. This time, Cumberland was the foreword of a story I would see reprised across my journey; old industrial America, renovating itself for the next generation.

We climbed out of the bowl that is Cumberland and began passing by landmarks quickly. Frostburg, Grantsville, and Keysers Ridge are all just entries and exits from long viaducts over valleys and huge cuts in the peaks. I nearly missed my gas exit, for lack of attention. Bruceton Mills is like all these other mountain villages. Old gas stops or just a place on its way to another place. I stopped in at a homely truck stop with lots of room to turn around. The gas pumps were the earlier style of card readers with the scrolling digital clock letters. Thankfully, just because they were old, didn’t mean they were broken. I must’ve looked like an alien to the regulars milling about. More accustomed to Peterbuilts and Kenworths, my full-face helmet and rain gear made me look like a man from the moon or some planet at the end of the solar system. It’s not that they hadn’t seen a motorcycle before, just all the ones they’re used to have Ultra or Gold in their names. As I walked in I put on my mask (COVID is a thing) and gave a low “howdy” to the guy holding the door for me.

“How fur you reckon you’re going on that thing?” His voice had a deep rasp. His face was sunbaked and perched on top of his thinning comb-over was a vented red snapback from International Harvester.

“About as far as I want to, I guess.” I didn’t want to hold him up from his business. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who was asking out of curiosity, but more out of pleasantry.

“Hardly looks comfortable,” he said, then he let the door loose and straightened his cap, walking to a running Oldsmobile.

The storefront was small and cozy like the outside. Shoulder-height pegboard shelves held up most of your conveniences. The light speckled by hanging dust came from the windows on the front and side looking out at the cratered parking lot. A parquet hardwood tracked a heavily worn path in the aisle leading up to the counter. Waist height, the service counter was interrupted by a small break for a swinging door back to the kitchen. A tower of scratch-offs hid what I could deduce was the only register and behind the counter was a display only Phillip Morris could be proud of.

I looked up and a round, curly-haired, blonde lady met my gaze from behind the counter. Her heather gray swoop neck was covered by a stained off-white apron. It struck me how she could have so much face and such small eyes.

“Help ya’?” she said. Her tone was generally helpful and colored by years of unfiltered cigarettes.

 The storefront was small and cozy like the outside. Shoulder-height pegboard shelves held up most of your conveniences. The light speckled by hanging dust came from the windows looking out at the cratered parking lot. A parquet hardwood tracked a heavily worn path in the aisle leading up to the counter. Waist height, the service counter was interrupted by a small break for a swinging door back to the kitchen. The register was surrounded by towers of scratch-offs and behind the counter was a display only Phillip Morris himself could be proud of.

“Bathroom?” I said.

She nodded her head to the left, my right, directing me to the small corridor containing a buzzing fluorescent light, labeled “REST-ROOM” by a slightly stained 8×11 sheet of paper.

‘This is gonna be great…’ I muttered in my head, careful not to spill my thoughts to the world. But, to my surprise, they kept things nice and tidy. Not Holiday Inn tidy, but better than your average 7-11. I finished my business and made for the exit. The lady, still having not uncrossed her arms or even moving from her post behind the register said,

“You’re not from around here…”

The ‘here’ trailed off like an echo in a deep cave and I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a declaration. In either case, she was right. I stood in the half-open door and considered making some witty response. She’d expect that from a charismatic, yuppie, city type. Instead, I channeled my best Eastwood impression.

               “No,” I said as I unceremoniously walked out.

This next part of my journey was what I most looked forward to. I intentionally routed myself south through Morgantown to pick up Route 50 to head west through the mountains. Transitioning onto Interstate 79, Route 50 traverses the freeway at the cluster of towns that is Bridgeport and Clarksburg, West Virginia. There was a surprising amount of traffic in these little burgs. I guess anywhere big enough for a red light and a Walmart is bound to have some traffic, but here they had thrown the Lowes, Home Depot, and Sam’s Club all as close to the highway as they could. My left hand was more than happy to escape the bustle as we made our way onto the section called the Northwestern Turnpike.

The road follows the land in this part of the country, snaking the valley floors close to the foot of one mountain or the other. The peaks don’t block out the daylight, but it’s about the same feeling you get riding between skyscrapers. I’ll take the ancient skyline of granite and sandstone over concrete any day. Little streams and creeks ran like veins and cow pastures were broken up by the groves of trees near the water or what was left of split rail and barbed wire enclosures. The time of year permeated the scene as the foliage was on display in bouquets of autumn hues. Gold, amber, and wine patchwork covered the mountains in a stunning quilt. Mother Nature had painted a foreground of magnificence with wild blue mountain flowers and thistles lining the road’s edge. A smell of honeysuckle was subtle on the clean mountain air and would hang behind the windscreen. The highway would open up for stretches, allowing me to spur the bike and my spirit, and then slow down coming into little towns that commanded my observation. Generations had made their lives here, unbothered by the goings-on of the outside world, and it felt like we had not only traversed land but time itself.

The bike loved the mountain air. Though it purred with the cadence and composure of a well-tuned sewing machine at stops and idles, you could tell the long, high speed cruising offset by my “spirited” right hand, was beginning to draw out the soul of a sport machine hidden under the camouflage of saddlebags and composite fairings. The bellow of the intake mated to the low growl of the exhaust produced a chorus to a rocking soundtrack, and I was all too eager to gratify it every time I had the space and balls to do so.

We continued weaving our way in and out, up and over ridges till my phone bounced off the repeat of my riding playlist. It was good timing since it gave me a moment to look up and focus my attention on the opening in front of me. The mountains parted like a curtain and I looked down on the industrial town of Parkersburg and the confluence of the Little Kanawha and Ohio rivers. I could feel a delight come over me, but nothing had physically changed. A warm sensation starting between my shoulders rolled like a wave up and then back down my spine setting my hairs on edge and my soul on fire. Was it my destination? No, but having made it this far already, it was excitement for what lay ahead. I was already learning so much of what the road had to teach me, and I couldn’t wait to be immersed in more of its wisdom…

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-Q