Another winter cold snap just broke, so time to ride my new to me 2023 Triumph Bonneville, which my wife insists looks like a “Margo,” in Meridan Blue and chrome. It was waiting for me patiently, like all motorcycles do, pretending not to care whether you show up, but also judging your choice of boots and style of riding jacket.
Thumbing the starter, the parallel twin woke with that polite confident British rumble that has nothing to prove. My plan was simple: roll west, drop onto the Country Music Highway in Kentucky, point the front wheel toward Prestonsburg, and then return on the same ribbon of tarmac.
In eastern Kentucky, as you get away from the Ohio River, the land starts folding into familiar Appalachian shapes, since the road must curve because the ground refuses to allow anything else. The “Country Music Highway” sign serves as a reminder that I am riding through a stretch of America that exported both coal, musicians and their songs, sometimes from the same holler, and often with the same hands.
As I crossed Lawrence County line, the Bonneville’s wide bars felt rock steady, but not so wide to feel like I was steering a tractor. This is now Tyler Childers territory, and all the surrounding roads to and from U.S. 23 must have been turned into lyrics, to deal with the beauty, hardship and laughter. This is where riding starts to feel like you should be listening. You pass a church, then another combination gas station and restaurant, then a hollow with a few mailboxes clustered like they are keeping each other company. You realize the road is telling you stories if you listen carefully.
As I pass into Johnson County, Loretta Lynn’s Butcher Hollow is nearby, thinking what it means for her and her sister, to come out of a place most people would miss if they blinked at the wrong time. Outside of Paintsville, close to the home of Chris Stapleton, I started noticing how most songs are not about this area, but because of it. Likewise, the Triumph and I are happy to be where the road bends without being dramatic as I roll the throttle on and the bike answers.
Somewhere between Paintsville and Prestonsburg I realize that this is not just a scenic byway, but a memory lane for the families who used it as an exit.
Dwight Yoakam, from near here, wrote “Readin’, Rightin’, Rt. 23,” and he clearly understood that 23 was both a route and a fate. When the coal work disappeared, many traveled north on 23, chasing factory jobs in northern Ohio and beyond, because you cannot feed a family on scenery, no matter how beautiful it is. Older houses sit back from Route 23 like they are waiting for someone to return, while the road itself feels overbuilt for my Bonneville and I. Occasionally you see the industrial leftovers of a coal tipple turnoff with a pile of coal near the road, a reminder of what once moved through here.
I rolled into Floyd County and had that pleasant fatigue I get after a couple hours of steady riding, when my mind is quiet and the senses are wide awake. I thought about Ricky Skaggs, and how a mandolin can carry the whole region in those double string notes if the player knows the local terrain. I decided to turn around, so I pulled into another combination gas station and food joint, topped off and walked a little. I caught myself staring at the old souled bike as it made the whole moment feel more purposeful, and I began to feel sorry for those that just ride some soulless machine.
Heading north on U.S. 23
I’ve noticed that even on the same road, the return trip is always different. The sunlight had started dropping west of the hills, so the road filled with long shadows, and I noticed a curve that flowed better going north, a ridge line view that only appeared when traveling north. The Triumph hummed along, and I kept thinking about Route 23’s identity. Today it is mostly a place you ride because of the scenery and the idea of small towns connected by one curvy line, but going north, it is a road of departures that start with a family packing a car and pointing it north because staying was no longer an option.
I was rolling north — thinking about nothing in particular — and suddenly I was in Louisa, a town that feels like it has been there forever. I decided to stop for coffee at a large combination gas station and ice cream parlor. I parked the Bonneville, pulled my gloves off, looked up, and laughed.
A bright British red telephone booth sat there like it had taken a wrong turn at Heathrow and decided to retire in eastern Kentucky. It was so out of place that it instantly felt perfect. Here I am on a road with coal dust in its pores and fiddle tunes on its shoulders, and in front of my Triumph sits this glossy little shrine to London, all squared off and red. I wondered if somebody found it at an auction and thought it would look interesting, which is how most great American roadside artifacts begin.
As I drank my coffee a quiet little click happened in my mind, the one when you realize the road gave you a small gift you did not ask for, that makes you smile for no practical reason. Soon I climbed back on, continuing north, while the phone booth stayed behind, keeping its secrets and probably confusing the next traveler in exactly the same satisfying way.
I rode home feeling the steady pulse with chrome catching the last of the light, and with my head full of counties, names and songs. A three hour ride, give or take, and yet it felt bigger than that. Because some roads are not just roads. Some roads are chapters.
