On the third day with no power, no water and no more ready-to-eat food, I looked at my Yamaha Tracer 9 GT sitting there with nearly a full fuel tank and accepted it was time to mount up and escape the aftermath of Hurricane Helene.
I underestimated Helene, as I’m sure many others did. As a native and lifelong resident of the region, I’ve seen countless downgraded hurricanes hit the Blue Ridge Mountains. I figured this one would knock down a few trees, maybe cut the power for a few hours and close a few backroads that are routinely subject to flash flooding. I wasn’t concerned.
When the rain and winds stopped, news tricked out about the true toll this epic, biblical, catastrophic, record-shattering storm wrought on Western North Carolina. The death toll kept rising as more bodies were pulled from the debris flow. Communities like Chimney Rock, the Swannanoa Valley and Asheville’s River Arts District saw buildings, roads and people swept away by a muddy, unstoppable force of nature.
I was very lucky, and I felt a bit of survivor guilt. No power meant no well water once the tank ran dry, but my smartphone worked, so I could contact others and keep informed. I was safe, sheltered and suffered no financial hardships after the storm. Again, very lucky.
The first day, I’d ventured out in my car to see Helene’s impact once the wind and rain stopped. Thankfully, my part of town was less affected by the storm, but there was no way to cross the French Broad River and travel more than a few miles away from home.
The second day, I found one gas station open, with hoarders lined up into the highway to fill cars and containers with fuel. The only open grocery store had people with multiple overflowing carts lined up from the front checkout to the meat department in back. I failed to acquire either, in shock and too depressed to wait in a two-hour line for canned goods, if I could find any.
The third day, a friend posted on social media about the one road open across the river. From there, I could make my way to the reopened section of Interstate 26 and escape this dystopian nightmare. Instead of sitting in the dark and hoping to find food and water, I could hit the road and see parts of the Carolinas I’ve rarely visited. That would be good for both my physical and mental wellbeing.
Escaping to find normal
It was just happenstance I’d filled the Yamaha with gas a few days before the hurricane. It wasn’t out of preparedness. I wasn’t prepared. I’d craved a soda, so I just topped off the tank a few miles from home as I returned from a spin around town.
Now, post Helene, the gas lines were longer than any I’ve seen in my lifetime, and I’m old enough to remember the embargoes of the 1970s. Desperate shoppers emptied store shelves of food and water. What little food I had required cooking, and the power was still out. The night before, I’d cooked spaghetti using a propane torch I found in the bottom of my toolbox. I wanted a decent meal, a hot shower.
Day three dawned and still no power, and no hope of returning to normalcy in the immediate future. For breakfast, I ate a stale granola bar I found in my golf bag and sipped what little water I had left. I checked the weather forecast on my smartphone, which I was able to recharge in my car. No more rain. Partly sunny skies. Moderate temperatures.
I looked again the shiny Yamaha with a full tank. Why am I still here? The road is life, as Jack Kerouac famously said. This time, I took that literary phrase literally. I checked my wallet. Only $3 in cash. I’ll find a working ATM somewhere, I told myself with some trepidation.
Google Maps and news feeds showed every major road in-and-out of Asheville flooded, washed out or covered by a mudslide. By this time, Interstate 26 was open to South Carolina if I could get to it. I found a road where the French Broad River overflowed into an agricultural field but hadn’t reached the roadway. At last, an escape route.
On the Revolutionary Road
I crossed into South Carolina and headed east away on S.C. 11 from Helene’s path. Power was still out here in the Upstate, but I felt better just being mobile. The morning sun on my face as my bike hummed along lifted my spirits. I’ve always said motorcycling is the most effective, all-natural anti-depressant you can find.
I realized this route is where the famed Overmountain Men marched in during the Revolutionary War to fight the British at the Battle of Cowpens and later Kings Mountain in 1780. It was during this same time of year, as well. I decided I’d head for the battlefield parks, indulge my fascination with history and try to forget about the carnage back home. Alas, the Cowpens Battlefield was closed, likely due to the storm damage to the park. Fallen trees still dotted the roadside. Streams still ran bright orange with mud.
The Overmountain Men had endured a freak late-September snowstorm and marched more than 300 miles over difficulty terrain to the reach the spot where I parked. I checked my phone to find more messages of concern from friends across the country, and more bad news of the storm’s widespread damage. A few friends from out of state told me they planned to head to Asheville to help in relief efforts. I confessed I was heading the opposite direction. Some of us are not so noble as to rush toward the conflict, and I felt the irony and a bit of shame at my idolizing the Overmountain Men’s community-based courage when I’d abandoned my community to seek comfort somewhere down the road.
As I rolled along S.C. 11, I found patches were traffic lights worked, indicated electrical power, and other spots suffering outages. Gas lines were still long at the few open stations. I glanced at the Yamaha’s gauges. Still reading full – although my pet peeve about the Yamaha is the gauge really only has four settings: full tank, half tank, quarter tank, low fuel warning. I missed my Suzuki V-Strom 1000, which gave a countdown in miles to empty. Still, I wasn’t worried. The Tracer 9’s gauge did tell me I was averaging 51.1 mpg. I had 200 miles before worrying about fuel.
In Gaffney, I paused at the mural in the quiet downtown honoring the Overmountain Men and their trek through these parts. A gas station on the edge of town looked open. I discovered they were out of fuel, which explained why there was no long line. I felt relief when the clerk said I could get $40 cash back with my debit card, so I bought a honey bun and a drink. I knew neither the bike or I would have an empty belly if I couldn’t use my card somewhere down the road. I dined leaning against the ice machine at the gas station overlooking the massive traffic jam on Interstate 85 south, another sign of Helene’s impact nearly 80 miles away.
I gave the bike a good once-over since I didn’t really plan this impromptu, long-distance excursion. I wasn’t sure where I was going or when I’d come back. The chain needed lubing and adjusting. I could hear it whining while maintaining a steady speed. Easy parking-lot fix. With 15,000 miles on it, the chain could use replacing once this expedition is done. The oil had just been changed a few weeks ago. Tire pressure OK. Satisfied with my steed, I relaxed a bit for the first time all day and felt both the thrill and enthusiasm I always get on a long motorcycle road trip and the nagging sadness of the tragedy and suffering back home.
I rationalized my flight from home as a practical necessity to find food, gas and running water. I also needed to write another motorcycle travel feature for this magazine, despite the circumstances. With no spouse or children to worry about, why not “find a land more kind than home,” to quote Asheville’s most famous writer, Thomas Wolfe.
Yet I kept picturing the photos filling my social media channels, pictures of places I frequented and cherished, which now are just piles of unrecognizable brown debris.
Fighting off the weight of the tragedy, I fired up the triple-cylinder Yamaha with rumble and turned north to ride a few scenic country roads to cross back into North Carolina and connect with U.S. 74 east.
In Shelby, gas lines grew shorter. Traffic lights worked — more often than not. The quirky fuel gauge on the bike jumped from full bars to half-a-tank. I spotted a short lane at a gas pump and dove into replenish my fuel supply, just for peace of mind. I found a pizza joint next door and ate the best meal I’d had in four days. I grabbed a few hundred out of an ATM, just in case.
I pressed eastward. Soon I spied the towering peak of Kings Mountain in the distance. It was here the fledgling American forces won a pivotable battle for our independence from England. I was heading toward the battlefield, only to again find it closed and power outages in the namesake town. Continuing my trek, I proceeded to Crowders Mountain State Park only to again find the gates locked. These two prominent peaks are what geologists say are the remains of long eroded mountain range, now standing above the surrounding Piedmont.
With my sightseeing thwarted, I turned north and started looking for a place to stay for the night. The first three motels had no vacancies. Others had also fled Helene and grabbed all the rooms. After a bit of online searching, I booked a room about 15 miles away in Lincolnton. I took an extra-long hot shower and reveled in having cable TV again.
The lure of gold and golf
The next morning, Helene still dominated the TV news. And it seemed it wasn’t going to get better in the immediate future. I would continue east again, getting farther away from it all. I’d always had an interest in the little-known 1800s gold rush here in North Carolina before richer finds in California and Alaska drew more attention. I rode off that morning toward Gold Hill, a small community where gold was discovered and mined during the mid-1800s.
Most of the buildings were closed since it was a Monday, the typical day off for businesses who cater mostly to weekend visitors. The general store even hosts bluegrass concerts on Friday nights. I strolled the village alone, enjoying the weathered, wooden buildings along the main road and the history of this unique North Carolina community.
Next, I rode by Reed Gold Mine about 20 miles away. It’s the site of the first documented gold find in the United States, according to state officials. Nuggets weighing up to 28 pounds have been uncovered here, once making North Carolina the leading site for gold mining until being eclipsed in 1849 by California gold rush.
The Reed family operated the mine from the early 1800s up to 1915. Today, the mine is a state historic site operated by the N.C. Department of Natural and Cultural Resources. Guided tours are offered and visitors can even pan for gold themselves.
I’d never visited this portion of southeastern North Carolina before. It took a hurricane, closed roads and gasoline shortages to drive me in this direction, but I found myself appreciating this rather overlooked region of my home state. I meandered country roads for most of the day, noticing the creeks and streams were their normal color and the trees stood vertical instead of blocking a road.
When time came to find shelter for the evening, I decided I wanted to visit one of North Carolina’s most famous villages — at least it is if you are golfer. The sandhills spread out before me. As a mountain boy used to seeing white pines, firs and spruce trees, I kept admiring the tall, thin loblolly pines and forest floors covered with pine needles. The terrain become more manicured as the road lead me to Pinehurst, the historic golfing retreat dating back to the late 1890s.
I found a side street next to one of the many golf courses to take a break from riding. Google Maps showed me I’d parked next to the first hole of the famous Pinehurst No. 2 course, host to several U.S. Open tournaments. I watched a few groups play through, escorted by sharp-dressed caddies in their signature green vests. It felt like sacred ground, even for a municipal-course rat like myself.
The historic Village of Pinehurst features charming shops and eateries. I parked the bike along a row of luxury cars and tromped around the immaculate streets in my motorcycle boots, Kevlar jeans and sweat-soaked shirt looking like you’d expect a rider to look after a few days on the road.
I found a reasonably priced motel not far away and got some rest before touring the World Golf Hall of Fame the next day. The museum, recently moved back to Pinehurst after several years in Florida, features the USGA Experience, historical displays, trophies and clubs and accessories used by past champions. Golf geeks will love it.
Since I had no schedule and no particular place to go, I decided to spend a few days here in Pinehurst to plot my next move and relax a bit after three days on the road. Tragedy and disaster back home still filled my motel’s TV each evening. My last day in town, I did get some good news. Power had been restored at my place. I could go back if I wished.
I decided there was no rush. The cleanup would take months, so continuing my odyssey a few more days might let things get a little closer to normal. I headed to Raleigh, where my parents were sheltering with relatives. While there, I had to see the North Carolina Museum of Art. This state-funded museum, one of the largest in the South, houses more than 40 galleries. I roamed them all admiring Egyptian sarcophagi, African sculptures, post-modern abstract art, and European portraiture.
My favorites include a Picasso, some nice Andrew Wyeth paintings, a Georgia O’Keefe and an interesting exhibit on the Black Mountain College, the influential private school in the 1930s to 1950s noted for producing a number of respected artists. My heart sank because I knew the Swannanoa River back home had probably flooded the old site of this historic learning center.
A bridge of hope
My excuse of running away to seek food and running water was no longer valid, so I decided to slowly make my way westward. Interstate 40 could get me there in a few hours, but I still couldn’t bring myself to rush back into Helene’s devastated wake.
My plan was to detour southeast of Asheboro to see Pisgah Covered Bridge, one of only two historic covered bridges in North Carolina. A decade ago, I started seeking out old covered bridges as a riding destination. Wikipedia offers a state-by-state list if you wish to find one near you.
After a few wrong turns — you’re never lost on a motorcycle, just experiencing a different route — I found the 54-foot wooden bridge spanning the peaceful west fork of the Little River. The bridge dates from 1911. It washed away in a flood in 2003, but was rebuilt using most of the original timber.
I gazed at the bridge from every angle and smiled upon hearing my boot steps on the planking and gave a knock on the sturdy trusses. A flood destroyed this bridge once, and the community rebuilt it. I felt the destruction back home will certainly be rebuilt, along with all the charm of what makes motorcycling in the Blue Ridge Mountains so special.
Soon I was off again. The weather was perfect, perhaps mother nature’s way of apologizing for losing her temper. Along the highway, pickup trucks hauling flatbed trailers filled with water and supplies rolled westward to offer hurricane relief packages. I’d seen several collection points for donations here in the eastern part of the state and marveled at the outpouring of generosity. I crammed my motorcycle luggage with some non-perishable groceries just in case I couldn’t find food on my return.
Six days passed since I fled. As I neared home, it was nice to see gasoline lines were back to resembling just a busy Friday afternoon, nothing like the chaos before. Stores were open, many taking debit cards as usual. The worst seemed over. The rebuilding well underway. The mental and emotional fatigue easing for many. I climbed off the bike, taking an appreciative glance back as I opened my door. Live to ride, ride to live, as they say.
