HeadOfTheClass
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Joined: 10/26/2016
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Preface: This was written in early November 2015, during a last minute attempt to ride up to TN to ride the Tail of the Dragon. I had been waiting four weeks for paperwork to clear to start a new job. I was out of money, nearly out of credit card and definitely out of patience . So l said screw it - I have always wanted to ride my fatboy on the legendary mountain roads of TN. Unfortunately the major storm line marching across the US arrived early and I changed my plans to shoot for mountains of west GA.
I have been using the GPS as a crutch to keep going. It would be so easy to quit and stop, but I'm driven by my vision of making it to the foothills of the mountains in West Georgia. I will drag my soaked carcass and my drenched belongings into the beautiful mountain side resort, use the hot tub to warm my frozen bones and claw like hands, followed by a soothing hot-stone massage. I can almost feel it, as real as the thousands of little bee-stings I do feel on my lower face - for hours and hours now. The tiny bee stings are really 55 degree rain drops pelting the uncovered portions of my face at about 60 mph.
It seemed like years ago that I was just intent on watching the miles decrease to Tifton, GA, approximately the half-way point on the 500 mile leg to my warm dry mountain mirage. I keep setting new goals, 200 miles, then just to the next fill up of 4 gallons. I know the discomfort is just that and by setting new goals, ticking them off, I really can do this. The rain gear I'm using was an expensive gift of very high quality and I'm also wearing thick insulated leather chaps under the pants and my heavy leather riding coat under the jacket. But after enough time, water is slowly driven down the neck, up along the boots, and eventually even sneaks its way around the secured double folds and into small portions of the zippers. The heavy square-toe riding boots, with their fresh pungent smelling coating of mink oil, are thoroughly soaked now and wicking off my body heat like a Tiki torch with it's wick set too long in a strong FL wind. The cold-weather riding gloves are still providing some wind protection but they are dripping wet and I can feel my tendons complain as I clutch and brake, clutch and brake.
I'm working to stay alert in my cold march forward, watching my speed as I go in out of each little town on the South Georgia Parkway. I'm also scanning for hidden potholes and low spots in the road. Everything is grey; the road is grey, the sky is grey and the rain in between all of it is grey. Except when up close, the individual cars and trucks have transformed into amorphous blobs of grey spray moving eerily by themselves. The vehicles only reappear in their true form up close. Like when I was passed by a fast moving Grey Hound bus. I looked up at its high black windows and imagined the people dry and warm inside watching the landscape go by. The bus sensed this and drifted into my lane dousing me with even more water just to punctuate my thought.
I was on the road by seven this morning as I rolled away from the crashing waves on Fernandina Beach, FL. I had looked at the weather and knew I would have to punch through the front moving across GA, but this shouldn't have been a big deal, I was prepared and it would be fine. What I didn't realize was the front was no longer moving and now covered the entire state of GA, not to mention that the temperature would drop from 75 to 55 as I headed west.
Not only had the GPS been my crutch, but now it was also my savior. I miss a turn, you know, one of those GPS roads where you can't tell if you are supposed to follow the left or right curve that look so close together, until you are headed down the wrong one and your path suddenly jumps to the other road. I decide to pull into an abandoned gas station and dismount for a couple of minutes while I figure out what I should do next. I pull out my phone and call my Resort destination to see if they would let their cancellation policy slide as I really feel now like I'm not going to be able to make it. As I start talking on the phone, I'm shocked to hear myself slur some of my words. I recognize this classic sign of hypothermia and immediately head for the nearest hotel I can find.
As I gingerly slide into the very hot water in the bath tub, I lament the passing of my dream massage, but also feel quite satisfied that I made a good hardcore run, and not only arrived alive, but I also feel so alive.
Peace & Kink, Kev
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50 Shades of Grey (not that 50)-Day 2 of 1k mile ride -... - 
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