Of course, not everyone I met along the trail struck the right chord. Earlier at a rest stop in Maryland, a nicely dressed, typically suburban middle-aged woman and her fashionably goth daughter paused to admire the Triumph's clean lines. In a positively surreal moment, Ms. typically suburban mentioned that she and her husband had taken their honeymoon on a '79 Bonneville, but that "he got drunk and killed himself on it one night, which was a shame, 'cause I really liked that bike." Indeed.
Onward To The Hoot
After catching a few z's in Charleston, I take a flyer back to I-81 and head toward Knoxville. As far as riding goes, the southern portion of 81 is better than the northern, but only just. In its defense, it does get you there, wherever there might be, as quickly as possible, and the scenery isn't all bad, especially if you're a NASCAR fan. The Morgan-McClure race shop, located in Abingdon, Virginia, is just a stone's throw from the highway, with the Bristol racetrack only a few miles down the road on the Tennessee border.
After a few hours I notice that the leading edge of the passenger seat is digging into my back. It's annoying, but something the aftermarket will no doubt remedy in good time. As you'd expect, I blow the offramp and circle around the city streets until I can locate our digs at the fashionable Knoxville Marriott. Two Coronas later, no lime please, and I'm napping soundly in air-conditioned splendor while the America cools in the parking lot.
Here Comes The Weekend
Friday and Saturday are filled with all the fun things you get to do at the Hoot. Suffice to say they included lots of riding, benchracing and food, the capper being our Motorcycle Cruiser Readers' Ride and Best Dam Fish Fry at the Norris Dam. Sunday it was back on the road. Since I didn't want to retrace my exact steps, I formed a half-baked notion to run north toward the Cumberland Gap National Park, then sneak up the back way to West Virginia, spending the night somewhere north of Charleston. Monday I'd head home and get back to work.
Typically, once I got under way, I still wasn't sure if I wanted to head north, south, east or west. However, after wandering aimlessly for an hour or two, I serendipitously chanced upon the Crockett Tavern, the starting point for many a settler who migrated through the Gap on their journey west. The die was cast, fate had spoken, it was the Cumberland Gap or bust.
I headed north via 11E and 25E/11W, which is a very nice route indeed, particularly the climb toward the scenic overlook at Bean Station, Kentucky. It was here that I ran into the Maynard clan, Charles and his stepson Jonathan Fish, brother Eugene, and father Eugene Sr., who were returning from the Hoot. We made small talk for a few minutes, and when Eugene mentioned he recognized me from my picture in the magazine, I promised to meet them all at next year's Fish Fry. So you see, flattery will get you into all the best places.
From the Cumberland Gap National Park, as breathtakingly beautiful a spot as you'll ever see, it was north and east on the 119, parts of which are absolutely awesome, with steep, sharp switchback turns that twist like a dervish on crack. If the Kentucky DOT owns an E-ticket ride, this is it.
By 10:30 Sunday night I was checked into a motel close to the I-81. All that was left was to get a good night's sleep and set sail for home.