Doing Time In Cookeville

May 30, 2013
Leaving Chattanooga was no easy matter. To get north of the Tennessee River and over Signal Mountain I had to first weave through the bowels of the city itself -- between the tall buildings and busy intersections. Having studied Google Earth before shutting off my computer this morning, I knew once I crossed the river there'd be a short freeway stint before cutting north to "W" Road, a steep and curvy backroad over Signal Mountain. The GPS was "sweatin' it" but managed to get us there.  I looked forward to scaling Signal Mountain and capturing video thereof. But it was not to be.

First, I saw a sign right after turning onto the W road saying, "Road Closed Two Miles Ahead". Second, the slight handlebar wobbling I'd been noticing since starting this morning wasn't my imagination. My front tire was low. 

Insert (July 27, 2013)
W ROAD CLOSED 

After finding a spot to turn around on the slanted hillside and returning to flat ground, I luckily stumbled onto a service station where a check of my front tire pressure revealed 20 PSI. It's supposed to be 36.

In the old days I'd simply add air. Now days you have to pay for air. I stood in line inside the inconvenient convenience store to get a dollar's worth of quarters while my bungee-corded luggage sat unguarded, ripe for the picking by any theft-minded passerby.

I returned to the air pump, quarters in hand. Because the circumference of the brake rotor is so close to the rim, requiring three joints between your wrist and elbow to even check the air pressure, the fittings of gas station air hoses are seldom angled so they fit onto the valve stem. Knowing that, before leaving home I'd purchased an $8 hose extension to keep handy. The downside of attaching the extension, which depresses the air stop in the valve stem, is that air starts escaping immediately and you'd better be quick on the trigger to get more air into the tire than what wants to escape. This little ritual was performed and I tweaked the pressure to just right .... 36 PSI. 

The smooth ride that followed was evidence the wobble was due to low tire pressure. But what now?  Surely, it would happen again. But how soon? Why was I losing air in the first place? Obviously, I had a leak somewhere. I suspected it was very slow and quite possibly from the valve stem.

I knew of and had previously browsed the Chattanooga Harley Shop on the other side of town but was also aware one exists in the town of Cookeville, 90 miles ahead along my route to Kentucky. I decided to ride on, theorizing the leak to be more revealing by the time I got to Cookeville where maybe I'd get a room and check the pressure in the morning to ascertain the severity of the leak.

The underlying mechanical concern tainted my video interests. That, and the dead video battery needing replacement, a procedure that would require dropping out of the tailgating parade up the mountain and risking a stop on the narrow highway shoulder between tight and slanted curves. Missing a capture of the scenic splendor while cresting Signal Mountain was just one more disappointment to add to the morning's growing list of setbacks. I had to remind myself that if this is as bad as it gets, I'm in pretty good shape.

Descending the other side of the mountain, north of the traffic, curves and forest,  I pulled over and replaced the battery just in time to capture the mundane scenery from there to Cookeville.

Straight, mostly flat, and sometimes fast 4-lane stretches of highway put me in Cookeville in early afternoon. Being a university town with 12,000 students might explain the hubbub. That, and Interstate 40 passing through town puts the "jam" in traffic jams. I wouldn't have expected such chaos in a town of 30,000.

I checked into Motel 6, exactly one mile from Boswell Harley Davidson.

May 31, 2013
First thing I did this morning was check the front tire PSI. It had dropped two pounds. The gradual air loss had begun. I called Boswell.

Unbeknownst to me, today (Friday) is kick off for a weekend motorcycle rally in Knoxville, 100 miles east. Every biker from 9 counties is swarming the Harley Shop looking for repairs or service. Though they are extremely busy, the friendly twang-voiced girl on the phone said they'd try and diagnose my problem before the day's end. Bring it on down, she said.

I clutch-squeezed my way through a sea of traffic, stopping at every red light, and was eventually in conversation with a crew-cut, clipboard carrying service manager who listened to my plea for special treatment in that I was just passing through. He summoned the shop gopher.

A long-haired, portly kid, heavy-laden with tattoos and built like an Angus bull, complete with a nose ring and chrome-studded tongue, reported for duty. He was dispatched to the parking lot with a squirt bottle of soapy water for an air-bubble check of my front tire and valve.  Not surprisingly, the test revealed nothing. Further diagnosis was above the kid's pay grade. Together, we returned to the shop.

I observed from behind the employees-only line while the kid reported his non-findings to a young bearded mechanic elbow-deep in the innards of rack-perched Harley. I could see but not hear the mechanic's apathetic response. The kid carried the message back to the service manager who gave the message to me. The good news was they'd try and get me back on the road today. Bad news .... daylight might not be part of the equation. But I was prepared, having signed up for a second night at the motel .... It's a mile away, I hinted, hoping the gopher had a drivers license. Didn't matter. They didn't take the hint. I was on my own.

I stopped for an IHOP breakfast on the walk back. Didn't mind the walk, except for horrendous traffic and limited sidewalks. Some intersections were as wide as airport runways, requiring a near sprint to avoid being run down by signal-launched motorists with little concern for pedestrians.

I put the downtime to good use, working on my blog and videos for most of the day. Later in the day, I called Boswell's to check on their progress and they were happy to report my problem was solved. I could come get my bike. The service manager said he'd give me the details when I arrived. I reminded him I was on foot, a mile away. This time he took pity on me and sent the shop kid who soon rolled up to my motel door.

Belying his appearance, the shop kid is a helpful, congenial young man hoping to rise in the wrench-twisting ranks of Boswell's Boys in Cookeville. Having graduated from Motorcycle Mechanic Institute in Phoenix, Arizona, he's worked at Boswell's for two years.  They let him do a little "wrenching" from time to time, he proudly announced. I wished him luck, thanked him for the ride and went inside to face the financial music.

The bottom line problem is "tubeless tires", which, in recent years, Harley had decided to go to on at least their touring models. They are notorious for air leaks, said the mechanic who suspected and confirmed my leak was due to air escaping around the "bladder", which is what he calls the rubber apparatus inserted to prevent air leakage around the rim and/or through the spoke holes in the rim. The mechanic said he would have replaced the bladder if he had one that fit but didn't. Inasmuch as I'd made it clear I didn't want to be a permanent resident of Cookeville, rather I wanted to get back on the road as soon as possible, he put a tube in the tire, a sure fix of the problem. We all agreed we preferred tubes. 

I rode away in confidence but $125 lighter.


Insert July 27, 2013: The series of setbacks described above also marks the start of a disastrous video problem I discovered a few days ago, which has resulted in no more videos for the blog. It was in Cookeville I adjusted the FPS (Frames Per Second) of the camera in hopes of "slowing" the too fast appearance of the videos. Not only did the adjustment not work, it was set at 240 instead of what I thought was 24 (couldn't see the tiny display well enough). As a result, every video clip taken for the rest of the trip is affected and cannot be edited in my video editing program called "Pinnacle". So ...... shown below is my "last" video.

 

8-Minute Video Leaving Chattanooga

Fellow Burger King Customer in Cookeville

Chattanooga To Cookeville, 90 Miles

The Sun Sets On Chickamauga

May 29, 2013
After leaving Ruby Falls I rode to the top of Lookout Mountain and spent the rest of the afternoon at Point Park, exploring exhibits associated with the battle that took place there in November 1863. The videos below show my descent of Lookout Mountain and sunset visit at Chickamauga. Next stop is Kentucky.

Slideshow - Point Park Visitor Center

Slideshow - Point Park

Slideshow - Chickamauga

Descending Lookout Mountain

12-Minute Video of Chickamauga Battlefield

Royal Inn To Ruby Falls, Point Park And Back

Ruby Falls

May 29, 2013
In addition to deteriorating parking lots, archaic accommodations and proprietors who have a cumbersome grip on the English language, another downside to $35 motel rooms is having to keep a wary eye out for peace-disturbing circumstances brought about by the troubled folk who populate the areas where these motels are located. If the Royal Inn at Fort Oglethorpe wasn't conveniently next to the Chickamauga Battlefield, I'd have sought lodging elsewhere.

While unloading my gear yesterday, just outside my room, I was approached by a heavily tattooed, agitated young man wearing a Christian-logo tank top, wanting to know something about weekly or monthly rates at the motel. For some reason he believed me to be a permanent resident. I told him I was only here for two nights and suggested the obvious, inquiry at the office across the lot where stood the Middle Eastern proprietor within earshot. Using vulgarity-laced adjectives he apparently assumed I was okay with, the beefy young man cussed the proprietor's inability to enunciate clearly, meaning he'd already tried but failed to understand an answer to his question, which is why he was asking me. Sorry, I said, looking over his shoulder at his packed van and baby-holding-cigarette-smoking female companion (dare I say "wife"?). I don't have that information. They left. The proprietor shook his head in relief.

About midnight voices outside my window prompted a curtain-slit peek of the parking lot. Two police officers were questioning a carload of white and black young people who looked more like party enthusiasts than lodging seekers. Nothing came of the detainment other than a citation being issued to the driver. Though I saw one of the passengers inside the office talking to the proprietor, they didn't stay.

None of this has anything to do with my 12-mile ride to Lookout Mountain this morning, other than lost sleep and my trek across the south side of Chattanooga, to the base of the mountain, being a continuation of drab and deteriorated neighborhoods. The GPS didn't mind, so why should I? (We would talk later about her attempt to traverse every side street we came to.)

While my focus on Lookout Mountain would be the Civil War battle fought there, pre-trip planning had alerted me to the "must see" Ruby Falls on the north side, half way up the mountain. Having read the basic information online, I knew Ruby Falls was a 145-foot waterfall inside the mountain; i.e. a cave. I also knew big crowds are common, hence my strategy to visit soon after the place opened for business at 8 a.m. I was there by 8:30, conveniently parked and bought my 17.95 ticket for $19 plus change as the first tour was forming at the nearby elevator. But another would leave in 20 minutes, a wait that would still be crowd free and allow me time for my first and only cup of coffee today. I sat alone in a snack nook, sipping my overpriced coffee and having breakfast, a large peanut butter cookie that I think, actually, was a pancake-shaped chunk of brown sugar.

Responding to the "all aboard" cry for tour two of the day, I gathered up my cameras and joined about a dozen other folks rallying around an elderly gentleman (probably younger than me) who identified himself as our tour guide and proclaimed the fortunate fact that ours was a "small group," even though it was a tight fit during our elevator descent of 200 or so feet.

Our cheerful guide gathered us for an orientation video in the cave, laid out some ground rules, and inquired as to where each of us was from. He was pleased and amazed I'd come all the way from Oregon, saying he rarely has any folks from Oregon. (I never told him I didn't come specifically to Ruby Falls, it was merely close to other reasons for being there.) We learned Leo Lambert accidentally discovered the waterfall in 1928 when drilling for a new entrance to the cave where he'd played as a child. That entrance had long before been sealed off by a railroad tunnel. In honor of his wife, Leo Lambert named his discovery RUBY FALLS  and began giving tours in 1930.

Our 90-minute tour meandered through the well lit cave while our guide entertained us with humorous anecdotes and paused now and then to allow pictures to be taken of the various rock formations he pointed out, some requiring more imagination than others to match with names given them; candles, fish and a donkey to name a few. Our guide told us the first tour group had the right of way on their way out, meaning when we encountered them, courtesy demands we put our backsides against the cave wall and remain still until they pass. Then it would be our turn to have the right of way on our way out.

Finally to our destination, our guide gathered us in a wide area of the cave for a verbal buildup of the wondrous sight we were about to behold, telling us to get our cameras ready. Not until the lights came on would we see the waterfall. Apologetically, he told us the view would be limited to seven minutes because a computer controls the lights. So, said our guide, when the lights go out it's not his fault. 

I'd already resigned myself to the fact I wouldn't get good pictures of the falls because I'd left my tripod behind, figuring it would be prohibited in the tight confines of the tour and rightfully so. Soon, our group was clicking and posing in the blending of colored lighting while music played, muting the  "ooooohs and awes" and certainly muting the natural wonder that Leo Lambert witnessed in 1928. Then again, how did Leo even see the waterfall in the dark cave?   

The crescendo of colored lights and music brought a smile of success to our guide's face as the limited viewing came to an end and he led us back. Soon, we met the next group coming toward us; a very large group and one I was glad not to be a part of. Walking back we saw stuff that escaped our attention on the way in, such as a tunnel entrance the guide said was a 1,000-foot escape route in the event the elevator malfunctioned. It is also used during the Halloween season as a "ghost walk", undoubtedly a monetary boost marketed by increased hype and hoopla to the already glitzy tourist attraction.

I don't remember if our entire group fit in the elevator during our initial descent but, clearly, we didn't all fit going back. As he shepherded all but the last two into the elevator, our guide said he'd be back for them. "See you in the morning," he chuckled, still on his whimsical toes as he closed the door. As we neared the top, he told us it was a Tennessee state law that all tours exit through the gift shop, which is why he was letting us out on the third floor as opposed to the main floor where we started.  To his credit, our guide didn't pan-handle for tips like the boys in the glades but we were met by a large sign upon exiting proclaiming the virtues of "tipping". Is it just me or does this subtle coercion negate the whole meaning of tipping? I figure $19 is plenty good enough. Do I think think the approximate 7 minute view of the waterfall is worth it?  Yes, but only once and only if you have an entertaining tour guide and only if you're already in the area and get in ahead of the crowd, which was in full swing when I waded through the parking lot in search of my iron steed.

Lookout Mountain Entrance To Ruby Falls

Small Cafeteria, Gift Shop and Elevator Access Inside

Observation Tower Overlooks Chattanooga

Welcome To Ruby Falls

Pathway To The Falls

Our Guide Points Out Candle Formation

Ruby Falls

Changing Color

Leo Lambert

9-Minute Video of Cave Walk To Ruby Falls 

Slideshow - Ruby Falls

On To Chickamauga

May 28, 2013
Confederate forces won the two-day Civil War battle of Chickamauga in September 1863. But not really, if you consider the nearby prize of Chattanooga, a strategic railway supply hub, was still in Union hands after their short retreat. Nevertheless, from the lofty heights of Lookout Mountain, the Confederates felt confident it was only a matter of time before they wrested Chattanooga from the Yankees far below. What they failed to consider was the tenacity of the beard-stroking-cigar-smoking general President Lincoln put in charge of Union forces in the region who subsequently replaced the inefficient William Rosecrans who led the failed fight at Chickamauga. By the end of November General Ulysses Grant's boys had scaled the steep bluffs and the Confederates were on the run back to Georgia. The stage was set for Grant's right hand man, General William Tecumseh Sherman, to begin his devastating march to Savannah. History calls the Chickamauga-Chattanooga Campaign the death knell of the confederacy.

My two-day plan to ponder the hallowed ground of these battles was to start with a late afternoon arrival after my ride on the Tail Of The Dragon, not that far away; only 104 miles; two hours if I accessed I-75 at Sweetwater. I wasn't sure how much traffic congestion to expect in Chattanooga. Though it didn't appear to be a huge city it was certainly big enough to have a "rush hour", which, according to most rush hours, would be in full swing when I arrived, if I kept going.

It wasn't a hard decision to opt for a fresh start in the morning. I consulted the GPS about nearby lodging while passing through the small city of Vonore. Not having ready access to the paper Tennessee map I bought last night in Andrews, I took her advice on how to get to the Quality Inn at Sweetwater. You guessed it. We took every goat trail in western Monroe Country getting there and even the GPS was scratching her screen in confusion trying to get us through Sweetwater to the motel (why pass by the high school when the town has main street?), which turned out to be right next to the freeway. In checking Google Earth later, I realized we could have covered those 16 miles in as many minutes if we'd have stayed on Highway 33 to Highway 68, which leads right to the motel's doorstep. But, argued the GPS, think of all the scenery we'd have missed, and the uniqueness of sharing those country roads with more tractors than cars.  She's right. Who cares how long it took? We're on vacation.

It was a leisurely ride this morning, paralleling I-75 via state route 11 to Chattanooga. After a brief visit to the Harley Shop (bought a souvenir shirt) I made my way here, to the $35 per night Royal Inn in Fort Oglethorpe. It was 3 p.m. before I finally went to battle the evening mosquitoes at the Chickamauga Battlefield next door. Actually, not next door, but just a few blocks south is the entrance to the National Military Park. Admission is free. 

I started my visit with a visit to the Visitor Center. Though it closes at 5 p.m. the park itself remains open well after sunset. In fact, a major Highway runs through the center of the park and only the gated side roads are closed at all. 

I watched the orientation film and wandered through the small museum, drinking in the fascinating history. In the waning afternoon light I slowly cruised the park, taking far more pictures than I'll ever use but didn't want to miss anything. As it turned out, however, like General Rosecrans before me, I retreated, hoping to resume the battle another day. While my wimpy excuse was fatigue and hunger, his was a little more serious; something about annihilation of his entire army.

Cow-filled Pasture Next To The Quality Inn at Sweetwater, Tennessee

We're Burnin' Daylight And The Harley's Still Under The Covers

 Sweetwater, TN to Fort Oglethorpe, GA

Tennessee / Georgia State Line Divides Chattanooga and Fort Oglethorpe

Chickamauga Battlefield Visitor Center

The Lobby

Patina Forms On Bronze Cannons, Giving The Green Appearance

Wisconsin Infantry Solider

Base Of The Georgia Monument

Twisting The Dragon's Tail

May 27, 2013
Checking out of the Quality Inn ahead of me at Andrews, NC was a Goldwinger who'd ridden the Tail Of The Dragon  (also known as U.S. 129) the previous day and several times over the years. He and I, and the long-bearded desk clerk who resembled William Golden of The Oakridge Boys, discussed my pending first-time-visit to The Dragon. I listened with attention to their admonishments and dragon tail tales. 

The desk clerk told of a recent conversation he had with a nimrod RV'er he correctly suspected was about to take his super-sized Class A over U.S. 129. Reenacting the conversation with utmost concern, he said he said,  '"Sir, you'd better rethink your route. I don't think there's any stretch between curves on 129 that's as long as your RV."'  And, as if speaking from experience, the Goldwinger left me with these words of advice. ..... "And DON'T speed on The Dragon .... not unless you want to meet one of those boys with a campaign hat. They were out in force yesterday."

I went to the parking lot and advised the crew (GPS and Harley) what we were facing a mere 38 miles up the road. The Harley flexed his spokes. Said he was ready for the challenge. The GPS on the other-hand feigned dizziness and requested the day off. We compromised. If she'd just get us to the site of the adventure, she could shut her eyes all the way down the mountain. I'd be too focused on the curves to be watching her anyhow. No .... I didn't really have that conversation ... but if I had I imagine it would have gone something like that.

Soon, we were eastbound into the morning sun of a perfect day; clear, calm and splendorous as we went higher and deeper into the mountains. So far, the only setback was a missed turn and subsequent chastisement from the GPS. It wasn't easy turning around, mainly because there were no shoulders and too many curves, making u-turns hazardous, not to mention illegal. Had to travel a ways to turn around, all the while listening to "I told you so" from you know who. Actually, I should clarify right here that I muted the GPS over two years ago, soon after acquiring her and her irritating voice. But even though ours is a visual exchange only, she still gets her digs in by silently screaming ..... RECALCULATING .... all over the map.

The closer we got to Deal's Gap the more I doubted its existence. And, it's a good thing I didn't seek lodging at Tapoco, the last town on the map, because there appeared to be nothing there either. Then, suddenly, around a curve, in the middle of the forest ........... Deals Gap ........ and a collection of motorcycles that would rival Sturgis .... well, maybe not .... but there were a lot of them ....  mounted, dismounted, leaving and arriving. I walked among the bikes and their riders, camera in hand, capturing images of the cool, the uncool and the undecided. 

Deals Gap is obviously all about motorcycles. Signs confirm it: "Motorcycle Resort" "Motorcycle Parking Only". Beyond the store that sells slogan-bearing caps and shirts, is a long, one-story building with multiple doors ..... a motorcycle motel. By the looks of the crowd it was booked and I imagine there was one raucous party in The Gap last night.  As a member of the "uncool" group, I'm thankful for not having been a part of it. That doesn't mean, however, I shouldn't have some souvenir by which to remember the experience. So I entered the store for a look around.

I was a little leery of getting a souvenir before slaying The Dragon, especially any thing declaring "I survived The Dragon". I had yet to qualify for that status. Could be a bad omen if I got a souvenir first. But, for all I knew, this was my only chance. I wouldn't be coming back this way. I settled on a ball cap and long-sleeved T-Shirt embossed with description and mapping of the route.  

In the middle of the compound stood "The Tree of Shame", its disastrous dangling of motorcycle parts and rider paraphernalia a somber reminder of those who have most likely left skin and pride on the periphery of the dragon's tail in a spectacular "watch this" moment. On the other hand, they could have just been plain unlucky.

I killed close to an hour in the parking lot watching the action and perusing the wide variety of motorcycles. Lots of beautiful machinery to behold. Eventually, it was time to face The Dragon.

As promised the GPS took some time off. I don't even remember her telling me the elevation. I looked later and see the highest point on The Dragon is 1962 feet. I would have guessed higher, at least 3,000 feet. It's hard to imagine these mountains are lower in elevation than the flat plains out west. They certainly look bigger.

I fell in behind a small group of Harleys and off we went to slay the legendary dragon. I hadn't thought about the state line since the previous day when I wondered what state Deals Gap was in. I learned it's in North Carolina, for two miles up the road we entered Tennessee  ..... where lives The Dragon I presume. 

The hype surrounding The Dragon's curves is just that. The ride isn't as treacherous as described, providing one stays close to the 30 mph speed limit. Even the GPS opened her eyes after the first couple of miles. But make no mistake, the road certainly commands respect and full attention needs to be paid to each and every curve lest you end up dangling from the Tree of Shame or worse.  Naturally, for the foot-peg-dragging daredevils, the experience is at a whole different level.

Not knowing exactly what to expect, I wasn't as relaxed as I would be if I knew the road well. Nevertheless, it was fun and exhilarating swinging through the curves down the Tennessee mountainside. If I lived here I'd do it often, as I'm sure many of today's riders have and will again. I'd like to try it sometime without all my luggage on the back.

As shown in the video below, the road levels, straightens,and parallels Chilhowee Lake before the Tail of The Dragon officially ends at the Harley Davidson souvenir shop at Tallassee. I stopped to check it out. This time I picked out a silver "dragon" necklace and earrings for Sherry, which of course won't hold much significance for her, never having been to see The Dragon.

Arriving In Deals Gap, NC

Deals Gap Motorcycle Resort

 

Dangling Parts On The "Tree Of Shame"

Curves On The Dragon

Stationed at various curves  are photographers 
working beside banners advertising something like 
"See Your Photos At killboy.com" , no doubt a lucrative business. 
At least they sold these photos to me for $3.50 each.

End Of The Tail At Tallassee, TN

Stitch

Doing Time With The Cool, The Uncool and The Undecided
10-Minute Video

Tail Of The Dragon

86 Miles

Backroad Progress

May 26, 2013
Backroad benchmarks for the northern trek through Georgia to Robbinsville, North Carolina were Monroe and Gainesville, cities of moderate size and recognizable on a map, if I had a map. The limited display on the GPS screen, with its "trust me" implication, wasn't  exactly a confidence builder as I struggled to cover that first 24 miles to Monroe, especially when the GPS led me to a dirt road before we even got out of Madison.

Granted, I had handicapped the GPS's decision making by eliminating freeways as an option, purposely wanting the backroad experience. But I'd also eliminated her selection of "dirt roads" so I was a bit perplexed when she insisted on them from time to time. Perhaps sometime in their history those roads were paved, thereby giving her an excuse? Nevertheless, I found myself on my own quite often during our all-day-156-mile-ride, even relying on morning shadows to point the way north while trying to explain to the GPS the difference between backroads and "goat trails". Surely there were some secondary highways that continue in one basic direction for more than a mile. Why is it she insists onto another road, seemingly every mile, or before I can even shift out of third gear? 
 
Though it was apparent we wouldn't reach our intended destination today, we agreed we were on the proper course to Deal's Gap. Not a map-listed town, neither of us could decide if Deal's Gap was in North Carolina or Tennessee. It's a biker enclave from which to jump onto the "Tail of The Dragon --- 11-miles of 318 motorcycle-luring curves that is all the rave in the biker world. I'm not a raving biker but, being this close to the area, I feel compelled to check it out.

We (GPS, Harley and me) made it to Monroe, rose to an elevation of 1232 feet at Gainesville, and were doing fine until coming to what we now know is the tourist-frenzy town of Helen, Georgia near the headwaters of the 430-mile Chattahoochee River that flows through town and is a magnet for inner-tubing water lovers on a hot day. Today was one of those days, not to mention it is also the Memorial Day Weekend.

About a mile from the city limits traffic backed up and came to a heat-grueling standstill.  Being Sunday, we knew the standstill wasn't construction related. Perhaps a wreck? The GPS had no clue and neither did I as we inched our way into town and ultimately realized the congestion was due only to meandering tourists. But how long would it last? How long was the town? I could only wonder as my left hand squeezed and un-squeezed the clutch lever, the air-cooled Harley began to choke and sputter, and the GPS became faint, her display fading in the bright sun. We all needed a break. Perhaps even an all night break at the high dollar Best Western we were now stopped in front of. Before I could decide, the Harley had us parked in the shaded breezeway.

I'm not sure if it was good news or bad, the fact the expensive motel was booked up and we were forced to motor on. The kind desk lady, who allowed me the use of the lobby restroom, said there was only a mile left of town and directed us to a backstreet that bypassed most of the congestion, a common weekend problem she attributes to the city having no stop lights. I wondered why the GPS hadn't advised me of the bypass and she said she would have if I'd have merely consulted her detour feature. Again, it was my fault.

Soon, we were back to highway speed, our sweat-dripping tempers cooling in the breeze and, to her credit, the GPS suggested a Quality Inn an hour ahead in Andrews, North Carolina. Unsure of lodging possibilities in Deal's Gap, especially on Memorial Day Weekend, or the closest town, Robbinsville, I figured Andrews was close enough and made a reservation. We could now kick back and enjoy the ride.

Way Down Yonder On The Chattahoochee 
In Tourist-Infested Helen, Georgia

Approaching Andrews, North Carolina

Rolling Into The Quality Inn

Bikers Welcome, Says The Sign

156 Miles (Long Day, Short Distance)