When I started riding motorcycles more than 15 years ago, I planned to go from a small town in Massachusetts to the furthest parts of the opposite coastline in Oregon and California. That was always the goal: to go as far and to see as much as was possible without a map, without a deadline, without a job or obligation to anchor or call me back home.
I wanted to be overrun with images and every sense to be besieged by stimulation. There was a romanticism in youthful ideas surrounding exploration and wonder that, among the sentiments people warn you about losing, is not one that is mentioned. While not totally lost, the desire to go on solo road trips, even the ones that only last four or five days, is not entirely intuitive as I jog toward my late 30s. That diminished sense of wonder borders on the tragic.
That’s where the late August journal entry starts for the ride to Fayetteville, West Virginia. Despite this being a relatively short ride from Western North Carolina to West Virginia, I woke up on the morning of departure without much feeling for my plans, teetering on the obligatory.
I saw my wife off as she left for the start of her day, walked my dogs, and started gathering all the essentials to strap to the back seat like a two-wheeled version of Tom Joad’s Hudson sedan as it trotted Route 66 from Oklahoma to California. The night before, I tightened up and maintained the chain on my Triumph Bonneville and changed the oil.
Noon. The planned departure time passed.
One.
Two o’clock.
Two-thirty.
With the sun in my eyes on a warm and radiant afternoon, I left for Floyd, Virginia. My ride, as far as I considered it, did not start until I had abandoned the interstate highways. I ended up confused on Interstate 26 north, turned around, lost in a back and forth; a start to the ride that felt more irritating than enjoyable as I checked up on my strapped luggage in the dirt shoulders on the side of the road.
The hat I brought to calm my helmet hair flew from inside my jacket as the jacket stubbornly and repeatedly used the wind to unzip itself. The fear of loss planted firmly in the first hours, wondering if anything else in my luggage would heed the call of the highways and jump ship.
At U.S. 19, I headed toward Burnsville, North Carolina. It may be of some surprise to the reader to learn that this was my first time passing through this mountain town.
Out of curiosity, I stopped and parked the bike in the town square. I shot a few photos with the Nikormat 35mm camera that’s been with me like a faithful old dog, with the bike as a prop to a mural on a brick wall.
The town was calm, and businesses began to close. It served as a nice break as I acquainted myself with the map. Further down U.S. 19, I stopped in Spruce Pine. Again, I was experimenting with curiosity. The mountains rose in the projected foreground. A series of old buildings sung the song of a time that came to pass. I slowly rolled through and into the downtown, which promised life in renovation.
Two men sat outside the motel and smoked cigarettes, pushing plumes into the sky. I nodded as I rolled past, thinking their conversation one of many, or perhaps the first of their acquaintance.
I found the mural downtown and took a few shots, just as I had in Burnsville. Time was lowering the sun, and it became clear that my destination was too far to reach in daylight. The miles ahead were long. I passed by the bustling hive of Boone without a nod or stop and then grabbed N.C. 194 toward West Jefferson. The ride, in its memory, begins here.
N.C. 194 is a departure from the bustling towns and their traffic jams that one is familiar with in Asheville and the towns that surround it. I wound through the meadows and the woods, houses scattered with distance, and fields stretching toward the untouched peaks with creeks running veins through the stony grasses.
The occasional wandering cow ventured toward the road, wetted legs in the trickling creeks. When I reached U.S. 221 out of Jefferson, I followed the gently snaking route into Virginia, forking at Independence.
The wonder struck, inhaled through my nose, igniting a memory and a string of sentimentality born of nostalgia. Between Jefferson and Independence, Virginia, the evergreen Christmas trees climbed the hills for miles, stewing in the occasional windblown smoke, cow pasture, and clear air that made that ignited a loop of childhood recollection. I set my own pace on the road, traffic unseen, not in front or following.
A young girl rode a horse up a gently sloped hill, the sun spiking off her helmet. The Blue Ridge Mountains cascaded in a blue-grey aura in the distance, staring down with emotion. More cows clung in clusters lazily in the dirt along the quiet road as I wove by, neither of us truly lonesome in the moment.
I pulled off at a small church to look back at my route in the distance. I liked the little building, solitary atop the hill. I took a break from the ride. The quiet broken by the distant sound of a child playing. The churchyard was motionless but not ominous and the piney smell remained in the air, tainted only by that woodsmoke.
As beautiful as Western North Carolina remains, the border region in the corner of Virginia was the only place to revive my spirit in the ride. The mountains are pristine. For those from Haywood and Buncombe counties, these towns and villages bordering on and into Virginia are a reminder of a quieter time well known by those who are anchored in the memory of serenity.
In Floyd, night fell on my shoulders. I was tired. I pulled up to the only stoplight in town, five miles out from my campsite at Crooked Mountain. In the dark, without familiarity with the road, I took corners too strong and too wide while watching out for wildlife.
The deer population after Jefferson, North Carolina, and all the way to Floyd along U.S. 221 was immense. In the night, this has the potential to be a disaster for a motorcycle rider.
Camping at Crooked Mountain
With my wits up, I arrived at Crooked Mountain campground and was greeted by a well-lit and easy-to-locate entrance.
A camp store sat immediately on the left down the gravel road. On the porch, along the walls outside the shop, QR codes offered information about various local activities. Most notably, motorcycle routes were downloadable, as the host, Brian Corbett, later informed me about.
While I stood fatigued on the porch, Corbett rolled around on his four-wheeler. I shook his hand, and he answered all my questions. While I guessed his age at about 40, I learned he was 47 and retired from a fairly extensive military career. He gave me some bottled water and firestarter free of charge and offered to lead me to my campsite, which he upgraded to one along the gurgling creek, under the watchful gaze of an enormous bullfrog along the bank, staring on with eyes like dimes in the stray light of my flashlight. I made my fire with some difficulty in the humidity, and in ritual, watched it burn down as I buried my head in the pillow.
I learned more from Corbett and his wife, Christi, the next morning as the sun and heat radiated off the fields. I was also able to see the campground under the full light of a bright day as I packed and loaded my motorcycle for departure.
The fields stretched ever onward, and rows of cultivated you-pick flowers stood as testaments to an idea married to a place. Sunflowers pressed their proud petals against the blue sky, tall and vibrant in their eccentric gold. I watched as the tractor strode along the lanes, and when Corbett came back from his work on a break, I learned much more about Crooked Mountain, the riding events and motorcycle meetups, the 9/11 memorial weekend, the organized rides and the ever-changing routes that he created for riders who sought adventure in the quieter stretch of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I also learned about the personal: Corbett’s grown children on the verge of marriage, the strain in maintaining 20 acres of raw land, and the extensive travel he and Christi had experienced before settling into their property.
While it all seemed so new, Crooked Mountain left a lasting impression on me in friendship. I am sure to return when the summer strikes again. Motorcycle riders who are on the hunt for a place that is both affordable while providing a tailored experience will not want to skip over this conveniently located campground, just 45 minutes from Roanoke.
Arriving in West Virginia
Corbett advised me to take Route 8, which eventually connected to U.S. 460 in West Virginia. I never saw the state line. There was no distinguishable entry into West Virginia. It did not feel like West Virginia until I reached the town of Hinton. I jumped on Route 12 out of Peterstown and wove north along the Greenbrier River. I watched old men toss afternoon casts into the gentle waters, just across the street from their homes. The ride was pleasant and led into the outskirts of Hinton.
Just up the road in downtown Hinton, I rode over brick, upheaved streets. A rusty railroad line pierced through the town. Makeshift cement block porch steps ascended 12 feet to a back porch door. Beautiful historic buildings, many of them empty, hung like ornamental relics in the slow afternoon. The town terraced the hills, overlooking the convergent Greenbrier and New River below, open-fielded hills stretching into silhouetted mountains. I stopped, shot some photos at the overlook, and analyzed the map. I was not far from Fayetteville.
At the highway entrance that marked the perimeter of the New River Gorge National Park, a man saddled with a large pack thumbed for a ride. I waved as I rode by, thinking it funny that he thumbed me for a ride. I took Route 20 to Rainelle and connected to U.S. 60. The road was strewn with beer cans and deer amongst deep green forest, fading blue in the oncoming twilight.
Unlike the previous day, I arrived in Fayetteville with daylight to spare. This ensured that I was able to set up camp without issue. Fayetteville was my home for the next few days. I parked downtown, walked around, and shot some film. The weather continued to hold out for my first night.
Exploring the New River Gorge
I camped at the Outpost at New River Gorge. I set my tent up for the night, read a bit, and had another ceremonious fire. The following morning, I rode back into town over the famous New River Gorge Bridge on U.S. 19 and had a breakfast burrito with two cups of coffee from the Wood Iron Eatery.
Tucked back atop a hill in an old white colonial building, the food and coffee were excellent. There was a copy of “The Monkey Wrench Gang” by Edward Abbey on a shelf behind the register. I struck up a conversation with the woman about him, and we both agreed he was both beautiful and vulgar at the same time. She pointed out how he loved nature but also loved to litter. It was funny to think about the war inside a man like that — an ironic dichotomy at work.
After breakfast, I spent the day riding and exploring the loop road that runs under the New River Gorge Bridge. Children swam in the gentle sandy currents, crested waves breaking on bars of stone. A lonesome man cupped his head in his hands, sitting at a picnic table. An old coal mine waterfall fell pristinely just up a short trail. Two worlds worked in opposition, not unlike Abbey.
Later that day, after weaving the trail road, I rode north on U.S. 19 to Summersville Lake. I made some friendly acquaintances along the shoreline and swam in the warm, deep waters. My new friend, Dante, was with a group who were jumping off a floating tree. I tried to get a photo of him backflipping off the top branch, but the light blurred the shot.
After my swim, I rode 20 minutes back to Fayetteville, ate dinner, and prepared to head back to camp. In the five minutes between pumping gas and returning to the Outpost, I was drenched by a thunderstorm. I crawled into my tent and laid low to try and avoid any potential lightning strikes. I had nowhere else to go. The great reward and simultaneous tragedy of the motorcycle: The world is home until it isn’t.
The next morning, I packed up camp and rode into town for the last few hours of my trip. As I was parking my bike on the curb downtown, an older gentleman in a riding jacket gave me a thumbs up. I removed my helmet and proceeded to talk to the man, who I learned to call Capt. Ron.
He wore a grey beard on a narrowed, keen face. I knew he was a motorcycle rider when I spotted him in that jacket. I expected to speak to him for about five minutes, but we ended up chatting for about an hour.
In that time, I learned quite a lot about the man, spoken in assuring wisdom. He first told me to go to Range Finder, which was directly behind us, for coffee. I learned so much more from him — his stories and how he landed in Fayetteville.
Capt. Ron was a retired boat captain based out of Florida. He had two children, one of whom lived above and owned the thrift and skateshop next to where we stood.
He moved to Fayetteville into the oldest building in town to be closer to his son. Firmly in his late 60s, he had spent years on his motorcycle prior to moving into the apartment on Main Street. He expressed deepened sentiments about nature and morning sunrises; about life under blazing suns and torrential rains, about a career at sea and in taking back roads from east to west only to settle for two years in Yuma, Arizona, living off of his motorcycle upon retiring, with no timeline to guard or derail him. A plan that required no plan.
When I ran into him on this final morning in Fayetteville, he was preparing to set off on the loop trail that I had been riding, which had become a routine for him upon moving to the town. Every morning, he rode off on his dual sport motorcycle for a few hours, maintaining that relationship with machine and beauty.
Although I delayed his departure, I was glad to be in the presence of tenderness and wisdom. A good man had crossed my path, and we were able to anchor whatever philosophy we unpacked in our mutual respect and love for the motorcycle. Perhaps, after all my doubts about leaving for these trips, this was the reminder I needed to continue to live openly, and with love for what lies ahead.
I grabbed a photo of him as he left for his ride, and took his advice on that coffee from Range Finder. A photograph from Danny Lyon’s “Bikeriders” lived on the wall near the window seating.
I smiled and drank as the sun lifted over the hills.
