My Favorite Ride
by Chris Hall
Some of the motomagazines have a regular feature with readers describing their "favorite rides." I always enjoy these articles, but I confess that I'd find it tough to choose a "favorite ride." Usually I think my favorite ride is the most recent one. I've given it some thought though, and I think I can describe what my generic favorite ride might be like.
I like long rides, so it's about 600 miles, and I like to start early. The night before, I finish my route plan, using Streets & Trips, copying the directions to an Excel spreadsheet, editing and formatting for easy use in my tank bag's map case. I make sure the bike is ready to go, set the alarm and get a good night's sleep. The alarm is set for 3:30, but I wake up early, get ready, have a cup of coffee, make a pint of hot peach tea to enjoy later in the morning, and head out the driveway about 4 AM. It's dark, of course, and chilly: cool enough so that heated grips and electric vest are comfortable, but not so cold that the electrics are required for survival.
My ride begins on four-lane roads, and the light reflecting off deer eyes beside the road reminds me why I wanted to avoid backroads before dawn. I enjoy cruising along, occasionally seeing a farmer out starting his day or a paper "boy" delivering the morning editions (ever notice how they're all paper "men" and "women" these days?). And right about the time the sun peeks over the eastern ridge, my route turns onto a "two-lane highway, going my way, going fast." An hour more of brisk riding and I'm ready for breakfast. As if on cue, I ride into a small town, where I spy Martha's Village Diner on the main corner. I park and go in to sit at the counter. Martha's smart and can tell that I need coffee, so she brings a cup with the menu. I order eggs over easy, home fries, wheat toast, and crispy bacon. "Onions with the home fries?" Of course.
I make a few notes in my journal, read the 8-page local morning paper lying on the counter, devour the delicious breakfast with another cup of coffee, pay up, mount up, and follow the route that leads me over Biguno Mountain, with smooth pavement and banked switchbacks up one side and down the other. A longish run of sweepers along Biguno Creek eventually leads me up the next set of switches. There's a lookout at the top of the mountain. I stop and enjoy the view and some hot peach tea, and watch several hawks riding the thermals down the ridge before heading down the mountain. Swooping down the mountain switchbacks, I can almost imagine how the hawks feel.
Another hour or so of valley riding brings me to a National Park I hadn't visited before. In the Visitor Center I collect the passport stamp, and chat with the Park Service Ranger, learning that she's from Idaho, studied at Virginia Tech and wrote a Master's Thesis "On Several Species of Small Furry Animals Grooving in Southwest Virginia." Now she's a newt expert, and when I ask for a recommendation for a short hike, she shows me where to find the habitat of the celebrated Fire Newt. I follow her suggested path, but either the Fire Newts are sleeping late, or I just don't have the attention to detail to spot them. I do enjoy watching a flicker mining its lunch of pine bark beetles, though, and then head back to the bike.
Following a fairly rough county road, I spot a historical marker signpost. I can't resist, so stop, read it, take a photo, and make a note in my journal about the sign and its coordinates and an idea for a trivia question for the next TVRally. A few miles farther on, I see an old log church, and stop to discover just how old it is: built in the early 18th century. Amazing, but then I think about other old structures in our world: Angkor Wat, The Great Wall, The Sphinx. And I wonder if I'll ever get to ride in Cambodia, China, Egypt. I sure hope so.
In a small mountain village, I enjoy a burger "all the way" with a chocolate and raspberry milkshake, sitting outside at the cafe's picnic table next to a beautiful creek. Inside the cafe there's a 30" trout displayed on the wall, allegedly taken by a local girl from that very creek. I consider assembling the fly rod, tying on the local favorite, and trying to coax one of the trophy's kin out of the water, but then I remember that I'm not in Virginia any more, and my license will just get me in trouble here. Back on the bike.
Miles and miles of roads later, straight and curvy, smooth and rough, flat and hilly, I arrive in my destination, a medium-sized town just a few hours ride from an interesting museum I recently read about. I ride around town, identify a nice-looking Mexican restaurant and a motel within walking distance. I secure lodging, change into street clothes, and walk over to enjoy a margarita, some chips and a chile relleno, and finish with a cold negra modelo, before wandering back to the room by way of a walk around town. There's a monument in front of the courthouse, in remembrance of the men and women who gave their lives for their country. I take a photo, and make note of the town's hero who received the Medal of Honor for his heroic behavior on the other side of the world.
Back at the motel, I check the bike to make sure it's safe and ready to go, set the alarm and get a good night's sleep. After all, in the morning, I'm going out for My Favorite Ride.