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This is my most recent piece, and one that I really tried to
"dig" a little to really describe the experiences of the weekend, both external
and internal. I think I got close on this one.
The Road Back
A Ride to Charleston, SC. June 2006
2006 marks my fiftieth
year on the planet, a milestone in any person's life. Time for reflection,
refraction, definitely taking stock and maybe buying stock. Around this time
many men hit their "midlife crisis" years, and like so many others who have made
it this far, my life has been through its changes both personally and
professionally in the last 12 months. Like many men, I have had a change in
marital status, although thankfully I got married and not divorced. I left my
long-time engineering career to give my writing and photography a full time
shot, and although the income is certainly down, the "happiness factor" is
certainly up.
Exactly thirty years ago,
in my twentieth year on the planet, I was in the US Air Force stationed in
Charleston, South Carolina. I had arrived there the previous year, and spent the
majority of my four-year enlistment there. In the seventies, the city of Charleston
was not quite the lovely spot it is today. The area surrounding the
military base was a somewhat depressing combination of used car lots, selling
mostly run-down transportation, and "dive" bars commonly referred to as "clip
joints". Coupling the lack of entertainment with a 300 dollar-a-month
Airman's paycheck and the frustrated energy of a twenty-year-old, it was often a
pretty depressing time.
The saving grace of that
time in my life was the group of friends I was destined to fall in with in 1976.
It was a crowd of eight or so, and we became an ensemble cast of characters for
the next several years, until my enlistment ended in 1978. Their good natures,
sense of fun, and senses of humor made the remainder of my time in Charleston
some of the best times in memory. Most have remained lifelong friends. They are
some of the best and most decent people I have known in this life, and I count
myself truly fortunate to have them on life's journey. My thanks to all of them,
just for being around.
As inevitably happens
with those in the military, assignments send some to new locations, enlistment
ends, and friends part company. Over the years, I maintained contact
with two of this group, Bob Maahs and Liz Donnelly and I saw each of them
periodically over the years. These two managed to keep in contact with others,
so I knew all were still around. Many times Bob and I had spoken about
organizing a reunion of the group, and due primarily to his efforts, exactly
thirty years later to the summer, all would all gather in Charleston once again.
For me, the reunion would also been an opportunity for a motorcycle tour, riding
the scenic highways in an area where I had lived thirty years before. Back then,
one of the few sources of entertainment was a "Sunday drive" on the scenic roads
and highways northwest of the Air Base. I looked forward to seeing them again.
The group would meet on
Thursday, June 1st, and stay through the fourth. Bob had booked rooms at the
Holiday Inn in Isle of Palms for the weekend, just 100 yards up the street from
a beach bar called the Windjammer, which was a group "hangout" back in '76. My
wife Lora was driving her car with all necessities for the weekend, and would
drive interstate highways to Charleston. I would be free to travel the "scenic
route". One of the many advantages in having a spouse, I am learning; she pilots
the "chase vehicle".
Interstate 20 runs due
east to Augusta, GA. and this was the most logical route for the first leg of
the trip. At Augusta, Lora would go further east on I-20 to Columbia and pick up
I-26 into Charleston, while I would head east on rural roads through South
Carolina.
Interstate travel on a
motorcycle is what it always is - boring and noisy with wind, but usually the
fastest route between two points. For my 50th birthday in February, my wife had
bought me a "portable music storage device" and I was using it for the first
time on this motorcycling vacation. I had spent the previous two days
loading almost every CD in my music collection on it - everything from 60s and
70s rock to Jazz, Classical and "New Country". The unit is an amazing piece of
technology, with a capacity to store over 1000 songs on it, all while fitting
neatly in a top pocket. Like most music devices of this type, it has a playing
mode called "Random All", which plays all the songs on the unit in random order.
I thought it might be interesting to let the machine pick the soundtrack for
this trip, eliminating the distraction of "button pressing" while riding. After
all, the songs were my choices - upwards of a thousand of my own favorite music
selections with no hunting for radio stations necessary. With the unit playing on earplug headphones under the helmet
and the BMW's electrically adjustable windshield in its "full up" position,
wind noise was ke pt at bay.
We left the house
together at 9:30 AM. I anticipated a six to seven hour ride, with stops for
photographs along the way. At Augusta I waved to my wife and exited at I-520
east, a "loop highway" around Augusta, to take SR28 east a few miles to Hwy 278
for the first leg of the open country ride. I had picked a due eastern route,
Hwy 278, to Hwy 78, then Hwy 61 as I approached Charleston. I especially
anticipated riding Hwy 61, as I remembered it as a particularly nice stretch of
road. This highway was one of the favorite "cruising roads" back then.
Once on Hwy 278, I was treated to open two-lane highway on a bright and sunny
day. As it was an early Thursday afternoon in a rural area, traffic was very
light, making an interstate speed limit pace the norm. While it was the
beginning of the summer season, temperatures had been cooler than usual, in the
mid-eighties with low humidity, so the ride was also very comfortable.
On days like this, it is
difficult for me to understand why anyone would be on the interstate highway.
The only "advantage" I can see is that you are usually on one road all the way
to a destination, and you're less likely to make a wrong turn, but for me,
looking for route changes are like milestones on the trip, and part of the fun.
It certainly lessens the monotony of the travel, and rural roads almost always
offer more in the way of varying scenery, including the sometimes unusual, and
most of the time a lower traffic level than the interstate. In this particular
case, the route to Charleston is also the most direct, so while towns slow the
pace, the shorter distance makes travel time approximately equal. When I'm on
the bike, rural highways are the only way
 to travel.
West of Williston, a
short connecting road, (SR781) linked 278 to Hwy 78, for the next leg east. As
has been the case all day, the roads were clear, the weather cool, and the ride
enjoyable. Near the Williston-Elko area, I came across an old car junkyard that
featured primarily 50s vintage vehicles. I have always loved these cars, having
owned a '57 Ford sedan in the early 90s. It was a great stop for photographs,
contrasting the modern motorcycle in front of the anachronistic and now
thoroughly rusting examples of "Classic Americana". Sad in a way - cars like
this have such style, it's unfortunate to see them simply waste away
unappreciated in a field. It was good to see the large group of them parked
together though. If you have to grow old, it's good to grow old with friends.
Further east I rode, onto
Hwy 61. The skies began to cloud up, readying for summer's typical afternoon
rain. I debated whether to stop to don my rain suit, but the roads were wet,
indicating that the rain had already passed through the area. Several miles
ahead I could see open sky and sunshine, so I kept riding. I did ride through
some light rain and drizzle, but the windshield and forward movement kept me
mostly dry. The cloudy sky and light rain actually cooled the day and the ride
quite nicely, but the pavement was wet and the older road a little uneven, so I
slowed my speed to avoid small indentations that held puddles of water.
North of Summerville, the
rain stopped, but skies remained partially overcast and the area cool. This
section of 61 is some of the best of the road, and I was very glad to see that
it hadn't changed much in 30 years. Great overhanging old Oaks dangling Spanish
Moss line the road in several sections, giving the feel of riding through a
large organic tunnel. This is still one beautiful ride. Closer to
Charleston, old southern plantations like Middleton Place and Magnolia Gardens
have been converted to parks maintained by the state. The Ashley River separates
this area from Charleston proper, and there are few bridges and roads connecting
it to the city. I suspect that is why this highway has remained mostly
unchanged.
Closer to Charleston,
housing communities and retail establishments have sprung up on the western side
of the highway. This is to be expected, I guess, but the pretty two-lane highway
cannot support this level of population and traffic for long, and I know that
this may be the last time that I see this road as it was. This area is
developing fast, and sadly, this road must surely follow.
Highway 61 ended at
Charleston's I-526, and the elevated loop
highway built in this city in the last 20 years definitely helps to move traffic
through and around Charleston, and it is only one of the improvements in the
roads here. Thirty years ago, Hwy 17 was the major north-south path through the
city, and the road was old even then, and had not been improved in some time.
I-26 from Columbia was the only interstate that made it to Charleston, and it
comes in from the west and does not go through the city. It was a difficult town
to get around in, with only local rural roads and highways allowing access to
either beach north at Isle of Palms or south at Folly Beach. I-526 connects both
these areas and loops around Charleston now, making the transition around the
city quick and easy. Kudos to the city here. I hopped on the loop highway and
got over to the Isle of Palms area in 10 minutes. The highway takes you past the
Port of Charleston, and the elevated view of the road really gives you a
perspective on how big port operations are here. The cargo ships, stacked crates
and containers of goods and cranes to on load and offload are massive and take
up the entire Cooper River to the right and left sides of the interstate for
what seems like a mile out.
Exiting I-526 to Hwy 17
on the north end of town lands me Mt. Pleasant. A few miles north on 17 leads to
517 east, which is another of the newer roads in the Charleston area. It leads
directly into Isle of Palms, goes over undeveloped marshland on the way and is a
nice scenic well-built highway. Crossing 703 into the beach area and a quick
right turn at Ocean Blvd. gets me to the hotel.
I arrived just in time to
meet some of the group checking in at the hotel lobby. Bob Maahs and his wife
Nancy had driven down from Virginia with another member of "the group",
Mike Kondas, and his wife Judy. I hadn't seen Mike in 30 years. We all instantly
re-connected like we'd been close friends all that time, and agreed to meet for
a drink at the ''jammer" down the street after getting settled. Others of the
group would be coming in on Friday. I parked, locked and covered the bike, and
headed to the room. Lora had already arrived and checked in.
Most were tired from the
travel, so after a few hours of catching up and good dose of laughter, a few
drinks and dinner, we agreed to meet on the beach behind the hotel on
Friday morning, and called it a day. On the beach early Friday afternoon, the last of the group
arrived and joined us. Liz Donnelly brought her two lovely
daughters Linsey and Sierra, and Bob Lowell from Boston brought son Brendan. I
thought it interesting that Liz's oldest daughter and Bob's son, both in their
early twenties, were about the same age that many of us were when we were
stationed here. The last two arrivals were Bill "Tree" Ammons, given that
nickname because of his 6'9" height, and Bill Waters, who was a neighbor of the
duplex apartment rented by several of us back then. Being that most lived on
base at the time, the apartment was considered "party central" by the group, and
a daily gathering place. Tree had stayed in Charleston after being discharged
from the Air Force, and had a 25 plus year career with Bell South. Since he was
now a "native", he was appointed as tour guide for the weekend. 
We all spent the day on
the beach, talking, catching up, consuming low to moderate amounts of alcohol,
laughing and getting sunburned. Friday night, Tree steered us to a great
restaurant called The Boathouse for dinner, and after we returned to the
Windjammer to hang for the night, listen to the band, and enjoy the evening.
Back in the seventies on
Isle of Palms, the Windjammer was one of the few "thriving concerns" on this
beach. It was a laid-back beach bar located close to an area that was mostly
residential, with little else around it. It had wooden steps going in, open
doors and sand directly out the back door, and wood slat floors. The closest
major structure around it was the Isle of Palms fishing pier a few hundred yards
up the beach. When hurricane Hugo hit this area in the late 80s, all was blown
away and the newer, trendier, upscale Isle of Palms grew out of the wreckage.
The old sandy beach bar is gone, but the feel of the place is still 'beach bar',
if maybe a touch more sophisticated. With all the familiar faces there, it
certainly felt like the old place.
 The bar had an
excellent band, the crowd was loose and up on the floor, and the evening was
just plain fun. One of the best things about the weekend was that although it
had been near thirty years since I had seen some of these people, we all fell in
together like no time had passed between us. These were still the easiest people
I knew to be with, and I think the reason for this is that this is the "coming
of age" group for all of us here. We all became adults together - the first time
for most of us on our own, away from our families, making our own way in the
world. This is the "formative group" of people who were with me when the first
real transition from dependent child to independent adult took place. They were
there to see me through all that, and I feel as comfortable with them as family.
From conversations that evening, I believe that all saw it the same way. Plus
they are just good people - decent, friendly, intelligent. They raised good
kids, stuck with and made successful careers, marriages, and lives. I respect
their accomplishments - "Salt of the Earth" people, all.
But also a bit older.
While the party might have carried on much later back then, by 1AM Lora and I
peeled off and headed for the room. We are not quite the "partiers" that we used
to be... thankfully, I think. The rest of the crowd left the bar a short while
later.
The remainder of the
weekend was much the same - good company and great fun. Saturday a "sand
sculpture" contest took place on the beach, and we all took that in, then
relaxed on the shore for the first part of the day. That afternoon, we met back
at the Windjammer to recreate a group photograph I took here here in 1976.
Since the first discussions about a reunion, I wanted to get everyone together
to retake that photograph thirty years later. In early evening, we took a
walking tour of historic downtown
 Charleston, followed by dinner in another fine
restaurant, Hyman's Seafood on Meeting Street, courtesy of Bill Ammons once
again acting as our tour guide. Back at the hotel, we all met in Bob and Nancy's
room to laugh over a photo album of pics from
the Air Force days that Liz had brought. A few had early flights on Sunday
morning, so we said goodbye to some. Those leaving later on Sunday would meet
for breakfast.
Sunday dawned - another
beautiful day. After a great breakfast at a place called the Acme Cantina, we
all agreed to do this again. It goes without saying. Mike comments that he feels
more comfo rtable with this group even after 30 years than most people he knows,
and I comment about that, offering my reason that this is the "coming of age"
group for all of us here.
But it was time to ride again. One of the great things about taking a vacation
on the motorcycle is that "vacation" lasts until you pull up to the front door.
When traveling by car or plane, getting home often feels like a chore rather than another vacation day. On the bike, there's always that feeling of adventure, coming or going. Going home is not anticlimactic, just another interesting day.
Lora left earlier to
travel the interstate route home. I would be stopping periodically for
photographs
 on the way, both in Isle of Palms and in downtown Charleston, and
wherever a good pic presented itself, before starting back toward Augusta then
Atlanta on the same route I rode here. Hwy 61 is the nicest road west, and worth
another ride, and it leads naturally back to 78 and 278, and I-20 from Augusta to Atlanta.
After stops for Isle of
Palms seascape photos, pics of boats on Shem Creek (a photo I take every time
I'm here) and the bike in the Charleston Battery area, I start
north again on Hwy 61. Now as I settle into "travel mode", riding on a highway driven
as recreation back then, the experience takes on a "flash back" like quality.
The previous Tuesday
and Wednesday, while loading CDs on the "music machine", I chose a CD by the
band 'Yes' entitled Close to the Edge. It was put on the machine more as part
of the process of loading music, rather than because I expected to listen to it
all that much. It was the kind of stuff I listened to a lot back then, but not
anything I had paid much attention to in over twenty years. Now, as I heard the
familiar strains of the intro of the 20-minute long musical piece, it seemed
that the "ghost in the machine" had made a selection that instantly transported
me back to that time. Even after not listening to this music regularly since the
mid-seventies, I found I still knew every subtle nuance of the music, and could
still sing along with the lyrics:
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Down at the edge
Round by the corner
Close to the Edge
Just by the river
Seasons will pass you by.
Now that it's all over and done
Now that you find, now that you're whole...
I get up, I get down...
I just smiled and rolled
through the curves of the road, taking in the entire "déjà vu" experience. I
just love when things like this happen. It makes me sure that there's more to
seemingly random occurrences than simply random chance. If I had been choosing
the music myself, I know I would not have picked this to listen to, but at the
time it
seemed the perfect choice, causing me to reflect on who I was then, who I am
now, and reliving a bit of my own history.
Listening to music while
riding causes it to take on elements of a "motion picture soundtrack", where the
music becomes rolled up in the immediacy of riding the bike - the "Zen like"
moment-to-moment attention that must be paid to the task, if you will -
imparting a mood or a flavor that sets the tempo of the ride, and of the day. I
find myself wishing others could know this experience. It is why, where
practical, that I choose riding the motorcycle over other forms of
transportation. It is the only mode of travel where you are driven to be
completely in the moment - not always thinking about trying to make time or
destination but simply enjoying where you are and what you're doing. There's an
improvisational nature about it, being in the environment and part of it, part
of the universe, whatever... how do I describe it without sounding "60s hippie"?
Difficult. At times like this, you are just "zooming".
 The musical composition
is about 20 minutes long (an "album side", back then) and ended just as I
rode out of the most picturesque part of the highway, and the route most traveled
30 years ago. Perfect timing. As it had been most of the weekend, the weather
was more than cooperative - sunny, with temps in the mid-eighties and low
humidity, a day both cooler and dryer than summer conditions usually are. Just
plain gorgeous. Continuing on, I stopped at Gihvan's Ferry State Park, another
"favorite spot" back then. The park had dirt roads thirty years ago, and it still
does now. As a matter of fact, like almost everything else in this area, it
looks exactly the same. A song from James Taylor's "New Moon Shine" called
One More
Go 'Round is playing in the headphones - once again a lyric strikes me:
'must have been mocus
and so out of focus
To miss the first half of the show
It gets to the end
We get to run it again
Just like before...
One more go 'round...
Back on the road, 61 led
me toward 78. Somewhere near Wheatstone Crossroads, my 'low fuel' light came on.
I had passed gas stations back at I-95, but as is usually the case with stations
close to an interstate, gas prices were about 20 cents a gallon higher than the
norm for the area. Highway robbery, I say. The bike has a large fuel tank, so
not to worry, as when the light comes on I have about 50 miles left in the tank.
Where Hwy 78 crosses 301 I stopped to fill up and get a sandwich and soda,
 quenching thirst of both man and machine.
I had been stopping to
take photographs along the way, but by now I had used up all the camera's
digital storage capacity and most of my film as well, so stops were fewer and
chosen more judiciously. By 278 I was down to the last few exposures on
a roll
of black and white film, and pulled off the road for a last few pics of the bike
and highway. While stopped, another motorcyclist slowed and put on the turn
signal when he saw me at the side of the road, preparing to render assistance. I
gave him the "okay" sign and said thanks, and he waved and rode on. That's just
what riders do.
At Augusta, I got back on
the interstate, locked the throttle, and made time. Near Covington, the skies
clouded over for the daily afternoon rain, and just like it was planned, the
music box plays The Who's "Love, Reign O'er Me" - again, the appropriate
soundtrack. As had been the case all weekend, I got light drizzle, but rode out
of it.
With stops for photos, it
had been a long riding day. The mileage totaled about 330 miles from Charleston
to Atlanta. I pulled into my driveway at about 7:30 PM. The combination of the
one-of-a-kind riding experience with the opportunity to reconnect with great
friends made it truly one of the best weekends in memory, and one to be
remembered . They say "You can't go home again", but every once in a while, if
you catch it just right, you can sometimes find yourself taking a truly
memorable ride on The Road Back. Copyright 2006, Philip A.
Buonpastore
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