This short series is for Mishima666, who has waited longer than I promised he would.
June 24, 2005 Day Planner entry, after the fact: "Hit deer - totaled bike - ended at Trauma Unit, UVA Hosp, Charlottsville, 2 1/2 days - bad scene all around."
Maybe we should back up a bit.
Sometimes living close to a beautiful place makes me less likely to visit it. It is a perversion that is not conscious but a habit I have inevitably fallen into all my life. The only time I visit any of the many tourist attractions in the beautiful foothill country of the Appalachians where we live is when someone visits us.
And even then I mostly point them in the right direction, hand them some tourist maps and brochures; tell them to enjoy themselves and I'll see them at dinner. I think that works out best for all concerned. I don't have to be bored, and they don't have to put up with me all day long. Sue says that is just the curmudgeon coming out in me as I age. I say, "Humbug!"
When I lived in Washington, DC those 20 years I almost never spent time visiting the sites tourists enjoy. Just so, Sue and I had often ridden in our neighboring state of West Virginia, mostly on our way "through the West Virginia mountains" to some other destination.
And we had never ridden in its highest county, Pocahontas. This in spite of the fact that the county advertises itself as motorcycle rider's heaven, hosts three large motorcycle rallies a year, and contains of some of the most interesting historical and natural sites in the Eastern United States.
This week long tour was to rectify our neglect of that motorcycling paradise, ending with a romantic celebration in the mountains of Sue's birthday on June 24th. It turned out that birthday celebration would be put on hold indefinitely, and that I would come closer to heaven than I had ever been in over 50 years of riding over some half million miles.
Looking back I am glad that I had arranged a surprise 50th birthday anniversary party for Sue the previous Sunday after church, inviting the entire congregation to join us for punch and cake in the Fellowship Hall. We had a good time with good friends.
And, the days following lived up to our expectations. The tourist bureau hype turned out to be true.
Monday, June 20, 2005. We left our home in Newcomerstown, Ohio after 10 a.m. It was cloudy but mild, mid 70s, no wind. We rode south on I-77, across the Ohio River at Marietta, and on to Parkersburg, WVA. All the greens were vivid and the trees were just then in full foliage. Lush deep green hay fields were at peak growth prior to the first cutting.
I-77 south of our village is one of the prettiest interstates in the East as it curves through Southeast Ohio's tall rolling hills and valleys, mostly forested, but with grazing land cleared for cattle and horse farms, through high mountains in West Virginia, down into the mountain valleys in Virginia and on to the piedmont of the Carolinas.
Since you are riding fast on the interstate, it helps a lot if there are some hills and curves and pretty scenery along the way. While we much prefer two lane roads to interstates, we use the interstates to get to the two lane roads we want to explore.
Some motorcycle touring purists think that it is a sin to ride the interstates. But to totally avoid them you need a lot of time off. When you have to take one week vacations like we did before I retired, if you don't use the interstates you are severely limited in the distances you can travel, and, over time, you run out of new places to explore. We had already done that.
At Parkersburg we headed east on US 50, took a couple of jogs out of Clarksburg and eventually ended up in Elkins where we turned South on US 219 and straight into the mountains just past Elkins.
[Sue and her Yamaha Virago 550 from US 219 looking down on the Greenbriar River valley]
US 219 at that point was a two lane highway that was well paved and maintained, but narrow. It wandered up and over several ridgeback mountains. Switchback followed switchback, some so tight that you had to slip the bike all the way down to first gear and make a tight 180 degree turn in thirty feet. On the downhill side 8% grades coupled with the switchbacks meant 2nd gear and constant engine braking.
A couple of times we met large 18 wheelers coming the other way and had to stop to let them pass. The switchbacks were that tight. The air got colder as we continued into the mountains and we stopped once to put the liners into our jackets. About 6 p.m. we arrived at our destination, Marlinton, West Virginia, an old village of 1200, just surviving, primarily on tourist dollars.
The town works hard to maintain an attractive downtown area, but signs of wear abound and a number of storefronts are empty. The town sits along side the Greenbriar River which is a wide and shallow ice cold mountain river where you can watch people trout fishing within the village limits.
Most of the "growth" of the village is north along US219 paralleling the River where the valley is relatively flat. But this is not really growth. It is the replacement of services that once were downtown and are now ubiquitous in small villages throughout the USA: Dairy Queen, McDonalds, Dollar General, auto repair, medical offices, small three to five business strip malls, etc. The buildings are often metal or quick stick construction as opposed to the brick and stone construction in the downtown sections of the village.
This is the shape of most small villages we have visited on our touring travels, regardless of where they are located. They are trading the old for the new. Unfortunately, the new is flimsy and often tacky; and the layouts are designed by someone in a corporate headquarters far away and imposed on the local owners by their franchise agreements.
It matters not whether you are in West Virginia or Kansas it all looks the same. Youngsters don't mind. It is all they have ever known. People of a certain age, however, have a sense of loss that is easy to feel and hard to describe.
Marlinton is close to the Virginia border and during the week we would explore the border area of both states, moving between states frequently, often not knowing for sure which state we were in as signs were nonexistent on the smaller roads.
We had traveled 260 miles that first day, the last 60 of which was slow, careful going. And since it was the first actual tour that season, we were out of shape and too tired to do much more than unload our bikes when we got to our lodging and wander down to the corner to a diner for a dinner neither of us remember.
We stayed at The Old Clark Inn, owned by Nelson and Andrea Hernandez, a nice bed and breakfast that is motorcycle friendly. They offer sheltered motorcycle parking, bike cleaning supplies and access to water for washing and cleaning your bikes.
The rooms are appointed well, but small, and there is no air conditioning. However the quiet window fan worked well in that high mountain country once the sun went down. If you enjoy ambiance but with a small sacrifice of convenience, at a very reasonable price, it is a good place to stay, and certainly the best place in Marlinton. Nelson and Andrea were very helpful to us, both before and after the accident.
END OF PART ONE
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