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This travelogue was originally published in Motorcycle Tour
and Cruiser magazine in June 2001. It is about a ride down the east
coast from the Outer Bank Islands on the coast of North Carolina to Beaufort,
South Carolina during the week following the Memorial Day holiday of that same
year. There were a few harrowing experiences and "life lessons" on this
vacation, which, due to the space limitations, were edited out of the final
published piece. Here's the piece pretty much as originally written.
The North Carolina Outer Bank Islands and Carolina Coast
 Standing at the top of
Kill Devil Hill at the site of Wright Brothers first historic flight, what first
strikes you is the seemingly insignificant span traveled by Wilber in the
brother's first outing. At 120 feet, most people could throw a rock farther.
It's fascinating to think that this humble beginning of powered flight less than
100 years ago led the way to the technological advances that allow today's
aircraft to fly from New York to Los Angeles in less than 3 hours.
It had taken me four days
to arrive here, after spending the Memorial Day Weekend in the small town of
Newland, North Carolina where family members had gathered for the holiday. I had
picked the holiday week to do my yearly motorcycle vacation, and since I would
already be in North Carolina, a trip to the Outer Bank Islands seemed both an
accessible and interesting choice.
Departing Newland early
Monday afternoon, I rode the Blue Ridge Parkway north before heading east on
Highway 421 near Boone. My first overnight stop would be at Apex, a suburb of
Raleigh-Durham, where a friend from my Air Force days lived. The plan was to
meet for dinner that evening to catch up, but that meant a solid day's ride to
cross a major portion of the state. Although I had a lot of distance to cover,
there was ample time for taking the scenic route. Highway 421 eventually led to
Highway 64. With stops along the way, I would remain on 64 for the next day and
a half, making my way toward the coast.
In contrast to
mountainous western North Carolina, the terrain going east changes from gently
rolling foothills and easy curves, to flat and straight as you approach the
eastern seaboard. The unchallenging ride is balanced however, by the area's
interesting scenery. Typical of the rural south, one might see anything from old
farms, grain silos and long-deserted shacks to historic areas complete with
grand antebellum mansions practically unchanged since the Civil War.
 That evening I enjoyed
dinner and some reminiscing with a good friend, and morning found me once again
on Highway 64 heading east. The highway became increasingly less populated as I
headed toward the coast, with the ride interesting but not overly exciting. This
changed however, as I caught sight of the blue waters of Albemarle Sound and
crossed the Intracoastal Waterway. Having been raised in south Florida, any
chance to get back to the ocean is a pleasure for me. Crossing the bridges over Croatan and Roanoke Sound to the Outer Banks landed me at my first destination.
Heading north on Highway
158 on Roanoke Island, I was disappointed to see that much of the coastal area
is given to typical "tourist trap" attractions such as tee-shirt shops and
garishly lit amusement parks.
 I was hoping for a little more "pristine
unspoiled" out here. A nice surprise, however, is Jockey's Ridge State Park, a
large state-protected sand dune park that covers 400 acres on the western side
of the island. If you walk a 50 yards into the park, the glitzy attractions are
hidden by the dunes and you get the feeling of what this area looked like a
hundred years ago. In the distance, the people walking the sand resembled ants
covering anthills. Good for a few worthwhile photos. By now, it had been a long
day and the sun was setting. Time to find a room for the night.
For the week, I had
planned to travel south on the Outer Bank Islands, take ferries to Okracoke
Island then back to the mainland, then head south through Charleston and the
Hilton Head Island areas before heading back to Atlanta the following weekend.
When I vacation on the bike, I usually make traveling "the thing" and try to
cover a fair amount of ground. I avoid making reservations if possible, which
allows for improvising where necessary, adjusting my itinerary as situations and
weather changes warrant. This approach occasionally has its drawbacks however,
as summertime is "the season" in this area, and most of the hotels were priced
at a premium and booked solid. I did find an average room at a higher than
average price, but after a long day in the saddle, I was glad to find it. Later
that evening, I rode to a local seafood restaurant for dinner then returned to
the room and got to bed early. I had planned some exploring and a lot of travel
for the next day.
In keeping with the
week's ambitious agenda, the bike was packed and I was out of the hotel by 8 AM
Wednesday morning in anticipation of a full day's ride. I planned first to head
north to see Corrola Island before riding south through the Outer Banks islands,
and back on the mainland by day's end.
State Road 12 runs the
100-plus miles of Outer Bank Islands from Corolla Island to Okracoke, but the
islands are never more than a few miles at their widest. The ride up to Corrola
Island is a two-lane ribbon of road with small seaside communities all along the
way. Boat Docks and small harbors dot the waterfront along Currituck Sound on
the bay side, and small grocery stores, houses and condos line the ocean shore.
This area has more of a year-round living feel than Nags Head and Kill Devil
Hills further south. The town of Corrolla and the north side of the peninsula is
famous for the wild horses that live in the area, and they can be seen grazing
on the side of the road at any time. As you might imagine, speed limits are slow
in this area - a good thing, as it gives you time to enjoy the ride and take it
all in. When you can find a place to park, a few minutes walk will bring you to
either the ocean or the bay on either of the island - this is a thin strip of
land. Stops for photos of a small harbor and the lighthouse at Currituck Beach,
and a walk out to the ocean at the end of State Road 12, and I was again riding
south.
Next stop, Kill Devil
Hills and Kitty Hawk to view the Wright Brother's museum. This area is really
quite interesting. The museum building houses copies of letters written by the
brothers, a reproduct ion of their first "flying machine", and some of the first
engines and prototype ma chinery that chronicles their progress toward powered
flight. Outside the museum building, the surrounding grounds show locations of
the first flights, and restored structures where the brothers and associates ate, slept and worked. Built on a hill overlooking the entire area is the Write
Brothers Memorial, a concrete and stone structure which features bronze busts of
Orville and Wilber, and a memorial inscription in granite commemorating the
events of December 17th 1903. A few well-spent hours taking it all in and I am
back on the road.
It was the beginning of
summer and approaching 1 PM, the hottest part of the day. I was wearing
protective riding gear, but on thin coastal islands you benefit from the cooler
breezes that blow off the ocean and moderate temperatures a bit. As long as
you're moving, you remain comfortable. I would spend the next few hours
traveling the approximate 65 miles to Hatteras to catch a ferry to Okracoke
Island. The ferry runs at approximate thirty-minute intervals, and getting back
and forth between Hatteras and Okracoke is relatively easy. Traveling Okracoke
to the contiguous forty-eight however, is a different story. The travel time
from Okracoke to either Swan Quarter or Cedar Island (on the mainland) is over
two hours. Ferry scheduling can be affected by sea and weather conditions and if
you miss the last one, you can be stuck at the end of the island chain where
lodging can be scarce during the summer months. T he ferry from Ocracoke to the
mainland also requires reservations, and I had made them from my hotel room that
morning. As such, I had to be mindful of the travel and stop times on the way
down to make sure that I was ready to board at Ocracoke Island by 6 PM.
The ride down to Hatteras
Island on State Road 12 is a straight two-lane road with stops to view the
ocean. Surfer's cars, jeeps, and vans are parked near long sandy paths that lead
to the ocean at selected spots along the road, as this is one of the better
known surfing areas on the east coast. The ride would be unremarkable if not for
the seaside surroundings and the novelty of riding on a long thin strip of
island. At Oregon Inlet, an abandoned Coast Guard station still stands on the
northern side of Hatteras Island. Its doors and windows are boarded, and pure
white sand resembling snow has been blown up like drifts against the seaward
side of the building. The concrete block building was built to withstand strong
sea storms, wind and sand. It is still in relatively good shape, and it seems a
shame that a building this perfectly placed and picturesque would be left
without a reason to be. The location is so good, it could easily be converted to
the per fect seaside restaurant or lodge. This is one of my longer stops of the
day as I walked the grounds with camera in hand to explore and photograph the
structure and the area. Farther down the road, I stopped again where the beach
view south afforded me a nice shot of the coast with the Cape Hatteras
Lighthouse off in the distance.
 Ocracoke Island is the
last "developed" island in the Outer Banks chain. It is fairly well inhabited,
has hotels and restaurants, and is a quaint little spot. The town of Ocracoke is
at the southern end of the island, and sailboats and other watercraft crowd the
harbor and dock here to take advantage of the seaside merchants. All contribute
to a general "nautical" atmosphere. Arriving an hour before my scheduled ferry
departure, I parked the bike and walked a bit, shooting photographs and talking
with the locals. The sun was beginning it's decent toward the horizon and it
would be closing on nightfall when the ferry arrived at Cedar Island.
At about 5:45, the line
begins forming to board the ferry. A father and son also traveling by motorcycle
were making the crossing the same time I was. On the ferry, motorcycles were
last on and first off, so while the cars boarded we compared notes on motorcycle
touring. The father rode a late-eighties vintage white Yamaha Venture and his
son a Honda Shadow. I have to admit I envied the father's choice of
transportation. His bike looked as if it could have just rolled off the showroom
floor. While I have always found my bike to be fine on a long haul, the storage
space and amenities of a touring bike showed the clear advantage of having a
motorcycle made for the task.
Once on the ferry,
another advantage of his bike became quite clear; the centerstand. Like most
"cruiser" motorcycles, my bike has only a side stand, and can be subject to
problems of instability in certain circumstances - like while parked on a moving
ferry. The seas were calm and the ferry's pitch and roll was not severe, but I
was concerned that the bike would fall over if I weren't there to give it
additional support. So, although there was a lounge on the ferry to relax and
enjoy the ride, I would be staying with bike for the next two-plus hours. I had
the Walkman to listen to, and with the sun going down slowly over the water, it
wasn't a chore.
 As the ferry came into
port at Cedar Island at about 8:00 PM, I had the good fort une of being treated
to an extraordinary sunset, and I rolled the bike off the ferry in time to get
some great shots at day's end. A photographic cliché maybe, but not when you're
watching it. The sunset was gorgeous, and one of the better ones in this week's
travel.
State road 12 to Highway
70 is the only road leading out of the Cedar Island area. The sun had set and it
was rapidly becoming nightfall. This is an unpopulated area, and the road a
two-lane blacktop with a steep drop off to marshland on either side. Not to
worry though - the road was in excellent shape and a great ride, even after
sunset. With the marsh scenery that was all around, this would be a fine ride
during the day, but at night, with an oversized yellow full moon low on the
horizon, a slight marsh mist and my bright headlight on, the scenery took on
mystical qualities. I could easily make out the landscape, and although I was
moving at 60 plus miles an hour, the denim shirt and jeans I wore were the
perfect riding garb for the warm summer night's temperature. I rode in comfort
with no hint of heat or chill. It was one of life's rare transcendental
experiences that remain in your memory, where every element joins together and
you know you're in the perfect place at the perfect time, doing the perfect
thing. If you know motorcycling, you wouldn't want to be here with any other
type of transportation. I rode in a combination of a near perfect state of mind,
spirit, body and environment until reaching Morehead City at about 10 PM. I felt
like I could have ridden till sun up, but it was another two hours to the next
large town and I had been traveling all day. I felt great, but knew I was
physically tired and that it was best to stop for the night.
 The following day was
spent on Highway 17 south with a few detours out to see the ocean at Atlantic
and Wrightsville Beach. The evening's stop would be in South Carolina, so the
plan was to ride this highway all day. The ride south of Wrightsville is mostly
unremarkable, as Highway 17 is a fairly run-of-the-mill divided highway. I
passed Myrtle Beach in early afternoon and thought about staying there
overnight, but wasn't yet ready to get off the bike, so I pushed on. I
eventually rode through the Francis Marion National Forest and its largely
undeveloped landscape made it a much nicer ride than this highway is further
north.
In the seventies while in
the Air Force, I spent most of my tour-of-duty stationed in Charleston, South
Carolina. I hadn't been back since then, so I thought I might take the next day
to visit and explore some of the old haunts from my service days. In those days,
Charleston was a bit of a "backwater" town, and I had heard it had changed quite
a bit in the years that had passed. As I rode on, roadside hotels and signs
indicated that I was approaching the port city. North of Charleston I exited on
Highway 517 east toward the beach. This road wasn't here the last time I
visited, and although I hadn't looked at a map, my sense of direction told me
that it should put me on the beach somewhere near the town of Isle of Palms, an
often visited locale in summer season while stationed here.
One of my old "hangouts"
back then was a beach bar called The Windjammer. At the time, the bar was
located in Isle of Palm's north end, next to a small group of low-key retail
establishments that were little more than flea-market style wood-framed garages
with hinged doors facing the street. As I remember, the businesses were mostly
shut down during the week and open only on weekends. The back of the Windjammer
opened up to the beach near an old fishing pier, and the during the summer
months the front and back doors were left open to allow sea breezes to blow
through for climate control. It had sandy wood slat floors and a couple of pool
tables. Occasionally, a local band would play on a Saturday night. Definitely a
"laid back" atmosphere.
The smell of salt air
told me I had reached the ocean, so I stopped for gas and to take a break and
get my bearings. I didn't recognize the area, but I figured that things would
start to look more familiar as I continued south. The area had a very inviting
look to it though - very new, the buildings painted "tropical" pastel colors,
neon lights, and nicely maintained. By then it was approaching 5 PM, and I
thought it might be a fun place to stay for the night. There was a hotel across
the street and I walked over to inquire about room availability and price, but
at 150 bucks a ni ght, it was a bit steep for the vacation's budget. Walking back
to the bike, I stopped for a moment to check out the cool look of the area. As I
looked up toward the skyline, immediately to the right of the hotel on the
building next store was a sign that read The Windjammer! Quite by
accident, I had found my old haunt of 25 years before, but I would have never
recognized it if I hadn't seen the name. Gone completely was the undeveloped
"laid back" wind-blown sandy beach feel, replaced by something that looked like
it could have been transplanted from Miami's "South Beach" area. Not necessarily
a bad thing really, just a bit of a shock. It is interesting how things can
remain timelessly frozen in your memory. From what I was able to gather from a
few short
 conversations, hurricane Hugo had pretty well wiped out this area in
1989 - the businesses, the original Windjammer, the fishing pier, all of it -
and in it's place had grown the new Isle of Palms. Newer, trendier, and more
tourist conscious. Funny, 25 years ago I would probably have been more impressed
by the look of the place as it is today, but now I think I would more appreciate
the rustic, timeless quality of the old building and the "laid-back" feel. I
guess that's getting older for you.
I still had the task of
finding a place for the night. Deciding that lodging would be less expensive in
town, I headed toward Charleston on SR 703. Residential communities populated
the remainder of the Isle of Palms area, but over the bridge in Mt. Pleasant I
found a room in an older but very well maintained hotel called the Shem Creek
Inn. I remembered the place from my weekend drives to the beach back then. The
hotel sits on a lowland marsh canal leading to the
 ocean, and the canal serves
as a harboring area for older fishing and shrimp boats that tie off bow-to-stern
on each side of the waterway. Very picturesque. The street name where the hotel
resides is Shrimp Boat Lane. As you might have guessed, the waterway is Shem
Creek, and it, along with much of Mt. Pleasant, hasn't changed much since I was
stationed here. One of my favorite photographs is one I had taken of fishing
boats docked along this creek some 25 years before. After checking in, showering
and changing to suitable "dinner attire" I enjoyed some great seafood at a
restaurant named Ronnie's, next door to the hotel. It had been a long day of
riding, and after dinner I relaxed for the evening, sitting out on a dock by the
water.
Friday morning and
afternoon were spent touring the streets of Charleston and checking out some of
the changes that had occurred since I had lived here 25 years before. Charleston
of the mid-seventies had a rural unsophisticated feel to the place. Most
businesses and entertainment - mostly used car lots and dive bars - catered to
the military element that dominated this area. Besides the Air Force base, there
was also the Naval Base as well as the Citadel, the well-known military college.
The downtown King and Queen street areas were somewhat run down, with buildings
dating back to the Civil War long abandoned and in disrepair.
 All that has changed. The
entire downtown area has undergone substantial renewal, and the old buildings
rehabbed and re-inhabited. Some have become brightly painted restaurants and
bistros; others house law firms, architectural firms, art shops or brew pubs.
Most contain antique furnishings and historical memorabilia. The place has
undergone phenomenal change. It's great to see, and no doubt a wonderful place
to live. As usual, I walked the streets with camera at the ready - seeing the
sights, shooting the worthwhile photograph, and taking it all in. I had lunch in
a great bistro called 82 Queen. As late afternoon appr oached, I debated staying
another day, but it was Friday and I had a fair amount of territory I wanted to
cover before returning home by the end of the weekend. By four that afternoon I
was back on Highway 17 heading south out of town.
Up until today, the
weather had been very cooperative. Although humid and hot, I had avoided rain
the entire week. A light drizzling rain moved in early on Friday morning, but
cleared when the sun rose high enough for the heat to dry the air. Now however,
dark gray saturated storm clouds began to move over the highway just ahead of
me. I stopped for gas, and as a precautionary measure donned my rainsuit, but
surprisingly managed to ride between raindrops and avoid what I know were strong
thunderstorms in the area that afternoon. By the time I was an hour south of
Charleston, partly cloudy skies were overhead once again. Good luck so far.
My next destination was
Beaufort, South Carolina. Normally, I suppose this wouldn't be considered a
likely vacation spot for most, but my father's resting place is there and I
hadn't been back to visit since his funeral over 10 years before. I had made a
return visit one of my objectives for the week.
The ride from Charleston
to Beaufort is only about 90 minutes at highway speed, and once I hit town,
finding the cemetery was easy. Finding my father's burial location was not.
Trying to get my bearings, I searched the cemetery for well over an hour with no
luck. At times like these, I have a tendency to become a bit "single-minded"
about accomplishing an objective, sometimes to the exclusion of all else, and
had worked myself into just that state of mind. As is often the case, my
single-mindedness was ill advised, as the storm clouds that I had left behind
just south of Charleston had now caught up with me. A light rain had begun
falling.
Now, after over an hour
of searching, it occurred to me that there might be a plot location guide of
some sort near the front of the churchyard, so I walked the 100 yards toward the
entrance. There, in an old wooden enclosure with double doors, was a notebook
with names, locations, maps, et al. Within minutes, I found the listing of the
location of my father's grave. It was then that the light rain became a
downpour.
It happened in seconds.
My motorcycle was parked on an asphalt drive inside the cemetery and about 50
yards from me. I started toward it with the intention of moving it to a shelter
in the middle of the churchyard, but I hadn't gone twenty feet when the downpour
assumed mythical proportions and was now accompanied by extreme and continuous
thunder and lightning. Within moments, all hell was breaking loose and I was
caught in the middle of it, completely alone, standing unprotected - in a
cemetery of all places - in a town where I knew no one and no one knew me. To
make matters worse, other than the few trees that sparsely populated the
grounds, I was the tallest object in the vicinity, and the prime target for a
lightning strike. Leaving the bike where it was, I hunched down and ran - maybe
for my life - toward the only protection I could see, a shelter where cemetery
services took place. By the time I reached it, I was drenched to the bone.
Surveying the shelter, I realized that what I was now standing under was a
four-post metal framed structure on a wet concrete slab. Within minutes of
the storm starting, the sky had become so dark it truly looked like night, and
the concussions of thunder were continuous and ear-splitting. As I watched and
helplessly waited out the storm, intense violent lightning struck everywhere
around the cemetery. On the street, a power transformer was hit, causing a
tremendous explosion and a shower of sparks and shrapnel; another strike caused
a building to literally catch fire just outside the cemetery wall. I could hear
the sizzle of heat as lightning cooked the air over my head. Had it hit anywhere
near the shelter, it probably would have been fatal. I was struck by the irony
of the very real possibility of dying in the cemetery where my father was
buried. I truly feared for my life, and in the cacophony of the pounding rain,
deafening thunder and screaming sirens on the streets outside the cemetery, I
made my peace with God and left my fate in His hands.
The storm lasted at full
intensity for the better part of two hours. All I c ould do was wait it out,
knowing the extreme danger I was in, and knowing - without exaggeration - that
any moment could be my last on this earth. Eventually the storm began to
subside. I was amazed when I realized that the danger was passing, and that I
had avoided any serious injury. As unbelievable as it seems, the sun peaked back
through the clouds just as it began to set. When the rain subsided, I stepped
out from under the shelter and found my father's grave less than 100 feet from
where I had been huddling against the storm.
This was one of the worse
thunderstorms I had ever seen, let alone being caught outside in. I thought
about all the foolish things I had done to get myself in this situation:
spending the afternoon searching without looking for a map of the grounds,
allowing my frustration to get the best of me and ignoring the oncoming ominous
storm clouds, getting caught in the middle of the cemetery when the lightning
storm hit. It was one of those rare watershed events in life when one learns a
great deal in a very short time. In this case, the lesson was about foolish
arrogance, stubbornness and hubris. It's one I won't forget.
I got back to the bike,
and much to my surprise, I thumbed the starter and it fired immediately. Thank
God. Due to power loss from the storm, most of the town was dark. Desperate to
find a dry place and change clothes, I stopped at the first hotel that had a lit
vacancy sign and got a room for the night. It was a bit of a "flea bag", but by
this time, it was a case of any port in a storm... or, in this case, the
aftermath of one. Once in the room, I emptied my waterproof traveling bag and
with the exception (thankfully) of dirty laundry in a plastic bag, every piece
of clothing was soaked. Donning the previously worn, I walked up the street to a
fried chicken fast food place, the only choice within walking distance of the
hotel. Considering the events of the day, I thought it appropriate to unwind a
bit with an "adult beverage". On the way back to the room, I stopped at a
hole-in-the-wall bar across the street from the hotel. This was my second
mistake of the day.
It was one of those
places where every stereotypical comment about the rural south you ever heard
slaps you in the face like someone swung a day-old muddy bottom catfish. The bar
featured an atmosphere of nearly pure cigarette smoke, punctuated by the worst
band I have ever heard playing a nearly unrecognizable version of Proud Mary,
way too loud. The clientele consisted of mostly inebriated locals dancing on the
floor, almost all with the perennial Marlboro hanging from the corners of their
mouths. The place smacked of cut-short educations and no options, of diseases
borne from too many years of smoking and bad diet, of wife beating, and girls
who were married at sixteen, mothers at seventeen, and old women by thirty. It
was my feeling that before the end of the evening, someone in this room would
either hit a tree on the way home or kill somebody in the oncoming lane. For
someone far away from home, it was instantly depressing and further contributed
to the bad vibe of day's earlier experiences. I wanted to turn and walk out
immediately, but thought if I did someone might make a thing out of it, so I
figured I'd keep to myself, have a quick drink and get out of there in a hurry.
I walked up to the bar and ordered a drink from sallow-complexioned overweight
bleach blonde barmaid in a knit halter top with no bra, stuffed into a pair of
too-small jeans that did little more than show off flabby muscle tone and
midriff bulge. A woman on the other side of the bar greeted me with a
checkerboard smile. I nodded politely, knowing it was the kind of place where if
you looked a second too long at another man's woman, you'd be stomped half to
death by four "bubbas" for the entertainment value it would bring. A million
miles from home in a redneck bar in Beaufort, South Carolina would probably be
my last choice of places for an altercation, so I finished my drink and beat a
hasty retreat. The lingering feeling of the entire experience was of having
dodged my second bullet in one day. Back at the room, I spent some time cleaning
up the bike and hung some wet clothes over the room heater. All I wanted to do
was to ride out of town and never look back again. I locked the door and hit the
rack, knowing that when I awoke in the morning I would do just that.
At 7 AM the next morning,
the sun was shining brightly once again. The sky was clear and blue with no hint
- save for a scattering of leaves and debris on the street - of the previous
day's insanity. Almost like it all never happened. I took another quick ride
over to the cemetery to pay parting respects to Dad, and started the approximate
40-mile trip down to Hilton Head Island. It was now Saturday, and depending on
the 'vibe' of the day, I would decide whether to stay there for my last night,
or take the six-hour ride home and use Sunday to "wind down" before the start of
the work week.
I couldn't fault the
weather now. It was once again perfect, with low temperatures for summer,
probably due to the cooling effects of the ocean and the previous day's storm.
Arriving at Hilton Head Island, I thought I'd look around a bit for any
locations to stay the night. Pulling up to a guard shack on the southern portion
of the island, I was informed by the guard that motorcycles were not allowed
into certain areas of the island, due to what he called the "noise problem". My
bike is stock, with stock pipes, and doesn't have a "noise problem". As you
might imagine, I found this a bit irritating. It seems unreasonable
 to me that
the motorcycle riders - who also pay taxes for the upkeep of these roads -
should be arbitrarily excluded from their use. I opted to ride to a few spots at
the north end of the island and walk out to the beach for a quick look and a few pics. I have to admit, the previous day's ordeals and the bag full of still wet
clothing on the back of the bike had caused me to yearn for the familiar
surroundings of home. With the greeting from the guard giving me that "We don't
want your kind 'round here" attitude, it felt like the 'final straw'. I took it
as an omen that the vacation was over.
My father, a lifelong New
Yorker, spent the winter months in Beaufort, and on previous visits I had
learned the rural routes to-and-from Atlanta. State Highway 68 makes a beeline
to Augusta, and from there it's a "straight shot" back to Atlanta on I-20. I
took US 321 north out of the Hilton Head area, connecting to Highway 68 at the
small town of Fairfax. Highway 68 runs through the US Government protected
Savannah River Nuclear site. Just to be safe, I held my breath for the 18-mile
trip through the area. Much of Hwy 68 is actually a nice ride, with older small
towns to break up the monotony of the straight highway, reasonably low levels of
traffic, and undeveloped sections where only trees line the road, courtesy of
the protected areas "owned" by the federal government.
Reaching Augusta still early in the day, I decided to take some time with the
remainder of the trip home. Exiting I-20 at Thomson, Georgia, I took US 78
northwest toward Athens, and this route was also a good ride, with low traffic
and decent stretches of highway and rolling hills. I stopped for a break at a
bistro in the college town of Athens, and then picked up US 29 to GA Highway
120, which led me back to Alpharetta, and my apartment. It had been another
eight-hour riding day. I was tired, and glad to be home.
An interesting week; most
of it good and all of it enlightening, and with a few experiences I'll never
forget. It's the reason I like to tour by motorcycle - this vacation wouldn't
have been half the experience traveling any other way. Although there were very
harrowing moments, having come through them unscathed added confidence to both
my touring and life's experience. Gained was the knowledge that at times the
least desirable circumstances can teach you the most - about yourself, about
what you can overcome in times of adversity, and about having faith. All things
considered, I really should do this more often... just as long as I steer clear
of Beaufort, South Carolina.
(c) Philip A. Buonpastore, October, 2000. |
