Now on the home stretch of our motorcycle trip, Stewbert and I elected to ride south along the Appalachian Mountains. Having spent a sizable portion of our journey in some of America's greater urban areas, it was nice to get out and see the country.
Although we were only a short drive away from such metropolitan epicenters as Washington D.C., Norfolk and Richmond, we may as well have been on another planet. Skimming around the tight-cornered mountain passes, I was rewarded by a sense of realism not yet experienced in our trip. The morning air smelled lush, the sun sent prickled spots of light through the foliage, and the roads would open up into enchanting vistas where we could snap a few pictures. Looking down and across the huge expanse of the Blue Ridge Mountains, I felt invigorated in a way that not even New York City could replicate.
Plus, I will be honest - hitting these mountain roads meant Stewbert and I could finally open our throttles and lean way off our seats as we wrapped our supersports around the tight corners. For a full day, the road was my playground as I brought up my RPMs and at last put some wear on the sides of my tires. After all, my Yamaha R1 is designed to do one thing very well: Go fast.
Unfortu-nately for Stewbert and me, we may have pushed the limit on speed. For the first (and only) time during this trip I saw flashing lights behind me, and spent the next 20 minutes engaged in friendly conversation with Virginia's local law enforcement. We did not get a ticket, thanks to a rather ingenious method of persuasion perfected on the spot. I will be happy to fill you in on an individual basis.
- Dan Wegmueller writes a weekly column for the Times, and an annual journal from his summer motorcycle trip. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
Although we were only a short drive away from such metropolitan epicenters as Washington D.C., Norfolk and Richmond, we may as well have been on another planet. Skimming around the tight-cornered mountain passes, I was rewarded by a sense of realism not yet experienced in our trip. The morning air smelled lush, the sun sent prickled spots of light through the foliage, and the roads would open up into enchanting vistas where we could snap a few pictures. Looking down and across the huge expanse of the Blue Ridge Mountains, I felt invigorated in a way that not even New York City could replicate.
Plus, I will be honest - hitting these mountain roads meant Stewbert and I could finally open our throttles and lean way off our seats as we wrapped our supersports around the tight corners. For a full day, the road was my playground as I brought up my RPMs and at last put some wear on the sides of my tires. After all, my Yamaha R1 is designed to do one thing very well: Go fast.
Unfortu-nately for Stewbert and me, we may have pushed the limit on speed. For the first (and only) time during this trip I saw flashing lights behind me, and spent the next 20 minutes engaged in friendly conversation with Virginia's local law enforcement. We did not get a ticket, thanks to a rather ingenious method of persuasion perfected on the spot. I will be happy to fill you in on an individual basis.
- Dan Wegmueller writes a weekly column for the Times, and an annual journal from his summer motorcycle trip. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net