It is not a high adventure but is quite entertaining and will make for a great story. The best part about this tale is that it takes place in the not so distant past. This story is best told among friends, so let's pretend that you and I are sitting by a quiet fire, the chairs are cozy and the whiskey is smooth. We are warm and comfortable even though there is a slight chill in the air. I light a smoke and began with...
The weather had been hit or miss all day. It began with a bright and hot Saturday morning, but with Florida's tenacity to be unpredictable, it clouded up by noon. "I don't give a fuck", said Brian. "It's going to rain one way or another, I just don't want to start the trip soaking wet". Brian always fnds a way to be as eloquent as possible. "Listen man," I replied. "We're outta here by five, rain or not!
I had spent the whole day packing and getting the bike ready. I ride a Honda CBR 900, a 94' and though I've spent plenty of time on the road, in the saddle or otherwise, this was the first out of state bike trip and I couldn't pack enough tools to make me relax. " Well what if this breaks, I gotta have that". I kept saying this to myself over and over again. Finally I settled on the basic cycle kit that comes with the bike and a good Allen wrench set to remove the fairings with if there's any trouble.
After getting the bike together I focused on my personal stuff. There is a book, which I have really taken to heart called" Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance". In this book the author relates some of his personal motorcycle experiences. He also tells you how to pack a bag. Everything that you would normally figure out and a couple that you might not think of. Like shoelaces, I mean you normally wouldn't think that shoelaces could be a big deal, but if your 1-40, fifty miles outside Conway and you can't lace up your boot, you've got problems. This author also mentioned that you should always pack a book. I would have done this normally, but because of this I began to pack the same book on all my road trips, "Walden" by Thoreau. I like this book because of it's complicated nature and because I can read a few paragraphs and set the book on my chest and contemplate what he meant for hours.
We leave Deleon springs and head north on hi-way 17 toward Palatka. The air is humid and the roads are still wet, but most of the rainstorms have passed and we make great time. Reaching the junction we turn west and ride to hi-way 90 which will take us to Lake City where we will connect with S.R. 441. We stop and fuel on 441 right at the I-10 interchange. The sun has faded and twilight is upon us as we ride north, leaving the humidity and cares of Florida behind us. State road 441 is a long and lonely stretch of pine trees and love bugs. Brian and I past the state line and entered Georgia at about seven thirty, I stop at the border to put my helmet on, I hate helmet laws, but when in Rome.
Our first stop in Georgia was at a little self-serve car wash. It was the first chance we had to really walk around and stretch our legs. Man did it feel good. I lit a smoke and drank a little Mountain Dew as I did the soar-ass shuffle across the concrete. We had past so many little towns on the way, but all of them had rolled up the sidewalks early and became unfriendly to late night travelers. By this time we were both getting a little hungry, but were loath to leave the main road for a late night excursion to find food. Tired and hungry we continued on till we reached the town of Douglas. Stopping to fuel at the kwiki mart, a local sheriff pulled in to get a night shift coffee. I inquired about any twenty-four hour dinners and he referred us to the Huddle House about a mile up the road.
Good old huddle House, how many nights did I spent in your freezing cold booths, ordering shit I didn't want after drinking beer I didn't need. But I know that huddle house is 99.9% of the time operated by locals and they usually have the 411 on near by motels and which strip clubs to avoid. After piling on some steak and eggs and a polite conversation with the waitress we head down the road, seeking a Super Eight, which, according to local intelligence, is within a few miles.
We find the motel without to much trouble and stop for the night. Upon entering the room I crank the air conditioner down to artic and flop on the all too stiff motel mattress. Flipping on the T.V. I find the movie" The Professional" and sit back to smoke. Brian has already drifted off by the time I extinguish my Parliament, so I turn the volume down and let the shouts and gunfire lull me to sleep.
The next morning we find the day cool and slightly cloudy. Leaving quickly we continue north, riding though some beautiful country on our way to 1-20. Arriving on the interstate we turn west and ride boldly toward Stone Mountain, our final destination. After more speed and vulgar hand signals than I was prepared for, we exited the interstate and proceeded into the foothills of the mountain. Upon arriving at Brian's mother's house we were greeted by an ecstatic parent, man was she happy to see him. Unbeknownst to me this was the first time since the war that Brian had gotten a chance to visit with her, so this was something special.
After lots of hugging and stretching we settled in for the night with a bottle of Crown Royal and twelve pack of coke. We spent a week enjoying the southern hospitality of the small Georgia town and got in some good riding there also. We climbed the mountain twice and took lots of pictures. The day before we left I had some battery trouble and we received several calls on the developing weather back in Florida, something about a tropical storm named Charley? Anyway, after a few minor repairs and a couple of minutes at the weather channel, our plan was set to leave the following morning. I laid down early that night, both to give Brian some time to chat with his mom alone and to give myself plenty of time to rest.
I think it was around five am when the storm began and the thunder woke me up. The pounding rain was pouring down so hard I could hear it slaping the sliding glass door I was lying next to. I rolled over and decided not to care too much about anything at this point, but at nine that morning the rain had not let up yet. I rolled over again, remembering that no good decision was made in haste and my getting up right then would solve nothing.
So it was at ten thirty, between rain bands that Brian and I bid adieu to the fair town of Stone Mountain and began the long ass numbing ride down 1-75 toward the Sunshine State. The sun was not shining as we entered, or as we rode though rain and heavy traffic seeking the Promised Land. Stopping only for fuel, we pressed furiously on, fighting away pain and fatigue, exiting 1-75 six hours later in Ocala for that long but friendly road to my home. S.R 326 runs directly in to S.R 40, and 40, leads to Country Road 3, which to me might as well been my driveway. It wasn't till we reached that road that I removed my helmet and let the cool breeze wash away my pain. A minute later brain did the same. Together, my friend and I, rode side by side with flawless precision, each enjoying the moment in our own way. And as the trees pass and the pine needles tumbled in our wake, the limitations of this world fell away and for a brief time, we knew what it was like to be free.
