From my days in school, I remember the dreaded term-long journal writing assignments. They involved a spiral-bound notebook with the word “JOURNAL” confidently written on the front and a date somewhere around Labor Day written on the first page. Within a week, the pad would settle toward the bottom of my desk and would reappear as part of a panicked end-of-the-term ritual that featured a Hail Mary attempt to catch up on entries and to have them appear as if they truly spanned several months. Different pencils and colored pens lent a bit of uniqueness to the first few pages, but inevitably suitable topics became nearly as unavailable as time.

These memories have returned over the last couple days as I have felt already behind in keeping in touch with you and sharing news of my recent travels. But unlike past writing assignments, I don’t feel at a loss for content. And much like past writing assignments, I reserve the right to change fonts from time to time.

It is the afternoon of Wednesday May 2^nd and I am alone in a hotel suite in Nashville, Tennessee. In one corner is a significant collection of motorcycle luggage and gear. On the other side of the room is the luggage of a man and a woman, two people who a day ago, I would not have expected to see.

On day five of ninety, I report that three-month motorcycle tours are a pretty good idea. I’ll be sure to update this opinion from time to time, but for now I’ll back up the opinion with a few experiences, as follows.

Saturday April 28 was my official Day 1 of the trip. Having spent months preparing, I was actually ready to take off as planned. Goodbyes began at home with my dog Griffin and our friend (and his caretaker) Lauren. Then fifteen miles west to my mother’s house. Then off to meet with Anna at a westward spot along route 66. Goodbyes are difficult sometimes; these were good examples. While chatting with Anna along route 66, friends Farrokh and Erik pulled up on their bikes and soon it was time to make some actual westward progress.

Over recent months I have been riding the bike as loaded as practical to get a feel for the weight and handling. But never before had I actually incorporated all the gear that I’ve brought with me on this trip. The bike is HUGE! About the size and weight of an adolescent moose. Between the camping gear piled on the rear part of the seat and the new heavy duty boots, I have no chance of “throwing a leg” over the back of the bike to get on or off. Instead, I now use the much less cool method of using my hands to pass my leg over the seat. Real bikers want to hit me when they see this sort of thing.

The three of us spent about an hour on route 66, then peeled off onto Virginia’s side roads, with Farrokh and Erik taking off on the twisty roads, then patiently waiting at certain points for me and my bloated moose. The weather was ideal at first, partly cloudy with temperatures in the mid 70s. But then the sky darkened and the mercury dropped. We zipped up our vents, pushed on into West Virginia and gladly never saw more than a few drops of rain. My favorite sighting that day was a goat perched on a doghouse.

At about 5:00 Erik turned as planned to return home while Farrokh and I continued on to Seneca Rocks.

With plans to meet others at the Princess Snowbird campground, we drove the area looking for our friends. We had been advised that there were two camping options in the area, one run by the Forrest Service and the other (Snowbird) by a private company. Having stopped at the Forrest Service campground, an employee recommended that his campground offered the better experience as the other was disorganized and often attended by a loud beer drinking crowd. He kindly gave us directions to the Princess Snowbird and we were on our way.

The Princess Snowbird lived up to its reputation quite nicely. My first observation was that the sign for the campground makes no mention of the words “Princess” or “Snowbird.” But it has a picture of a woman and includes the word “Indian,” so I guess that’s enough of a clue. As we looked for our friends, Farrokh and I were waved over by a group of people gathered around a fire. They reported that they had been drinking tequila for a couple hours and they were enthusiastically agreeable to share. We parked our bikes and set out with two of our new friends to buy refreshments at the nearby general store.

At the store we found our friend Steve. He had been climbing earlier in the day but stopped when it rained. He and his friends had been at the store for a few hours, doing the things that a Princess Snowbird camper is supposed to do. Steve introduced us to some of his climbing friends and our circle of acquaintances continued to grow by the minute. Despite the opportunity to make this a long night, we remained tame, knowing that we wanted to get back on the road in the morning.

I started day two by slowly and deliberately breaking down camp; packing the bike will hopefully become routine soon. For breakfast Farrokh and I split the pineapple that my (creative) co-workers gave me as a going away gift. We rode southwest for a while and reached the Skyline Drive, where I said goodbye to my pal – the last goodbye for a while.

The Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway run continuously together and offer motorists a path along the top (more or less) of the Appalachian Mountains. The following words describe the experience of riding these two roads: scenic, peaceful, introspective, and wormhole. The first three words likely need no explanation so I’ll focus on the fourth.

Although I have no actual knowledge of the phenomenon, I’ll be happy to write with great authority and describe a wormhole as a continuum across space. It is a portal that masks the contexts of distance and time while it delivers something or someone from one location to another. The Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway are (together) a wormhole. Once on these roads, one can drive for two or more days with little concept of where they are or how far they’ve gone. Unlike a wormhole that accelerates repositioning, the parkway has a reverse effect; it serves as a 500 mile treadmill where the pavement moves at you at a rate proportional to the reading of your speedometer. This observation is made in praise of the parkway, as the treadmill effect ensures you can enjoy the scenic, peaceful and introspective aspects of the ride.

The “solo” portion of day two consisted of riding the Skyline Drive, then the Blue Ridge Parkway as far as Peaks of Otter. In some ways it was a shame to stop when I did because the early evening sunlight hit certain trees with great effect. While all seasons doubtlessly have their charm, early spring is a great time to visit the woods because although young leaves are out, they are small enough to let one see what lies beyond them. And young leaves are a bright color that can only be seen in the spring, as evidenced by the sun’s evening angle making them appear as shining specks against a darker background. A fitting experience inside a wormhole.

I was excited about camping at Peaks of Otter, but apparently the campgrounds along the parkway do not open until later in May. So I checked myself into the lodge and headed out for a run.

With a map of nearby trails in hand, I picked a circuit that looked to be about six or seven miles. Having trouble finding the trail head, I started out into the woods in a direction that surely would cross the trail I wanted. Uphill. Uphill more. Lots of fallen wood. A few briars. No trail. Downhill. Sliding here and there. A prayer or two for no ankle twists. Then back to where I started. Plan B involved running the 1 mile loop around the lake next to the lodge. Plan B was much better than the first attempt. After five laps (and as many “hellos” to certain people walking the loop), I showered, ate and got ready for day three.

Nearly the entirety of day three was (happily) spent on the Blue Ridge Parkway. With clear skies and few other motorists, one can quickly become spoiled by the consistently excellent views and endless gentle curves. Without the distractions of commercial signs, tractor trailers and intersecting roads, it becomes easy to imagine the things that have happened over time along the Appalachians: the people who have lived in the area, the art and music they’ve produced and the struggles they’ve endured to fight for their homes. Not to mention the modern day accomplishments of those who cycle the parkway or, more notably, those who hike the area as they progress along the Appalachian Trail. It is also interesting to consider the age of the Appalachian mountains relative to, say, the Rockies. While the west is certainly more dramatic in places, the east seems somehow to be more lasting and genuine.

A variety of things can interrupt these thoughts. One such thing is the sudden SLAP of something that finds it way up a motorcyclist’s sleeve. The SLAP is usually the sensation of an insect hitting skin. And sometimes the insect is a bee. And when the insect is a bee, time is of the essence. A SLAPPED bee is typically stunned for some period of time before it realizes how angry it is. In that time, it’s a very good idea for the motorcyclist to stop and take off their jacket. It’s tempting not to stop since it may well not be a bee. But sometimes it is. On day three it was. I’m glad I stopped.

Arriving in the Asheville area near sundown, I found the nearest RV campground. It looked clean and offered a shower, electricity and a wireless internet connection. But I decided to also try to find a nearby motorcycle-only campground I had heard about. I did find the motorcycle camp but it must have been a slow night: only two or three other campers, stationed near a murky man-made lake. No electricity, no internet connection. I went back to the RV park.

I woke up on Tuesday about seventy miles away from a section of road that is legendary among motorcyclists. Boasting 318 turns in eleven miles, the Tail of the Dragon is a good name for a particular stretch of route 129 that bridges North Carolina and Tennessee. I’d never visited before but understand that this is a must-do for any biker in the area. And there were indeed many bikers in the area on that day. And most were MUCH faster than I. Sport bikes, touring bikes, cruisers and other dual sport bikes: they all passed me and my moose like we were standing still. I didn’t much mind. The ride was exciting and beautiful. And safe. At the southern end of “the Dragon” there is a tree decorated with motorcycle parts that have broken off during crashes. I left without making any contributions to the Tree of Shame, and I call that winning.

Heading further west, I traveled the Cherohala Scenic Highway which delivered me a bit northeast of Chattanooga. I checked my voicemail to hear my mother tell me that my brother Doug and his wife Heidi would be in Nashville that night and for the next two days. Doug and Heidi will be moving near Nashville later this year and they were, by chance, in town at the same time I would be in the area. Older brothers are valued in many ways. They pave the way for their younger siblings. They provide examples of to do and not do certain things. They share their experiences. And they share their hotel rooms.

So here I am in Doug and Heidi’s hotel room. I’m glad to be here, not only to see them but also to hide out for a day or two while stormy weather passes over the area. Having gone for a run, taken a shower and typed this note, I now wonder when they will be back from their home search errands so we can grab a bite!