What I Learned from My Summer 2013 Ride

The best thing about my rides is that they are educational.  And I'm not talking only about the history I get to relive while riding, but about the things I learn about myself on these rides.  Here's a few things I learned about myself this summer:

1. The worst rain storm I've ever ridden in is the last one I rode in.  I hit rain in Kentucky, then again in Oklahoma, and then again in Tennessee and Virginia.  Everyone of those storms seemed like hell under water at the time I was riding through them.  I couldn't see and since every one of them but Oklahoma occurred on interstates, each brought it share of terror with traffic moving all around me.  (I was out in the middle of nowhere in Oklahoma, so at least that one was a private hour or so of terror.)  I actually remember having to remind myself to breathe a few times and I was gripping the handle bars so tight I'm surprised I don't have permanent finger imprints in them.  Still, I rode on and survived.  Maybe they weren't that bad.  Ah, hell no, they ABSOLUTELY were that bad!  I had no business riding in that stuff, yet I did.  In hindsight it was stupid to keep riding, but I've never been very good at pulling over and waiting out the storm.  The second lesson with this one is, LEARN TO PULL OVER AND WAIT OUT THE STORM!

More rain! ugh!

2. I can be alone without being lonely.  I probably already knew this about myself, but this trip in particular made that clear to me.  Luckily, I got to see friends in Colorado and family in Oklahoma and Texas, so that helped prevent any hits of homesickness. Plus Renee came to Texas in the middle of the trip, so I got to see her too.  Still, like all my single rider trips, I found myself eating alone, sleeping alone, and hanging out alone.  I think I like myself well enough that being alone wasn't the worst thing.  Don't get me wrong.  I love my family and friends, but I can do "alone" when I need to.  I don't relish being alone, but I'm good with just hanging out with me.

One of the lonely roads I traveled this summer.

3. I'm convinced I am reincarnated from the 19th century.  I can't get enough of the history associated with the 1800's.  It doesn't matter if it is the history of riding herd from Texas to Kansas, just riding across the plains, or the worst of our US history related to the Civil War.  I have an incredibly deep sense of connection with that era.  As I write this I can't find the words to describe what I feel when I visit places that are a part of this history.  It feels not only like I've been there before, but almost like I never left.  Maybe my old life and new life cross some supernatural, electrical path in these places.  Regardless, it's a feeling that draws me back and one that I hope I never lose.

Yee haw...get along little dogie!

4. I still don't know whether these trips are my way of running away from something or running toward something.  Probably neither given I believe sometimes we just do things just because we can.  However, "Running toward" something sounds more positive, so I suppose I want to believe that, but who knows.  I do take advantage of the trips to learn about the area I am riding through and find something interesting to see, but that's not why I go.  Maybe it's just a need to spend some time sorting things out in my head.  There's nothing like riding a motorcycle for 800 miles in a day to give you time to think.  Still, I can't honestly sit here and say that I am thinking profound thoughts all the time.  Some of it is the same ol' drivel that meanders through our brains at any given time.  But, the total collection is a feeling of contentment that makes it all worthwhile.

This ride was easy to define.  I was riding toward something...my little Kayla...

...the wonderful wedding of my niece, Stephanie, to her love Cameron...

...and the great time I had at Josh's and Jillian's wedding that created the excuse for this ride in the first place!

5. I mentioned earlier that I am OK with being alone.  The most important thing I learned is that I like me.  As fucked up as I am in so many ways, (Ask Renee, I think she's keeping a list) still, I like myself and that's a really nice place to be.  Don't get me wrong.  Life isn't a bunch of puppy dogs and rainbows.  I mess up on a regular basis.  Still, I have a good life, full of wonderful family and friends and that's a pretty good predicament to be in.  So, if you struggle with liking yourself, here's some advice.  Give yourself a break.  Everyone screws up.  We talk about forgiveness for others, but sometimes, it's hardest just to forgive yourself.  You owe it to yourself to grant you a little forgiveness and give yourself a pass.  Screwing up is a part of life.  Getting up and doing better is the important part of life.

'Til next time.

P.S.  One last confession.  I really like the song Say Something by A Great Big World that features Christina Aguilera.  The passion and emotion they convey in that song always gets me.  Does that make be a candy-ass?  Maybe, but it's still a good song.

A Tribute to My Brothers (By Birth and Otherwise)

I have two natural born brothers that I love with all my heart.  One of the toughest parts of my life was a time when I lost my relationship with them and they weren't a part of my life.  That lasted for more years than any of us would want to admit.  I know I am ashamed of myself for letting that misunderstanding lead to losing them from my life for a period of time.  

Still, we all do stupid shit in our life and that was certainly one of mine.  Luckily, time and a little humility enabled us to get our relationships back.  Unfortunately, it'll never be the same, but at least it's better and moving in the right direction.  I know I can reach out to them even if my pride might not let me.  It's a "guy thing" and it allows me to not have to worry about our relationship.  I know they are there when I need them.  I hope they know I'm there for them too.

In addition to my brothers by birth, I also have a set of brothers that bring a completely different perspective into my life.  In 2007, I was lucky enough to be taken into a brotherhood called the Desert Knights of America Motorcycle Club or DKMC, for short.  DKMC is a traditional motorcycle club founded on the principles of the original motorcycle clubs of the late 1940's.

Every aspect of our colors has significant meaning to those of us who wear it.  And, yes, that's me standing in the cold during one of our many charity poker runs to raise money for our favorite cause, Fisher House. 

In the late 1940's the end of World War II saw young men returning from combat. Many found the transition back to "the real world" more monotonous and "normal" than they could handle.  As a result, some formed motorcycle clubs in a search for something, anything, that could get their blood pumping again and help them feel that same sense of brotherhood they felt with the fellow soldiers.

Today we see many similarities in our combat troops returning from Iraq and Afghanistan.  The DKMC is there for them, giving them a safe place to land where they aren't judged and where they can feel comfortable and find "kindred spirits".  As one of our patches says, "Brothers in War...Brothers in Peace. Desert Era Veterans for Desert Era Veterans."

I'm not a "Desert Era Veteran", but somehow this incredible band of brothers allowed me to become a part of their world.  For that, I am eternally grateful.  Unfortunately, I suffer from a malady most Americans suffer from.  I have never been in combat.  I label it a malady because not having experienced combat means we can't even begin to understand the things they have been asked to do for their country.  Yet many people want to express opinions about how our returning servicemen and women should act and behave with little consideration for what they have been through.

That's not a problem in the club.  Our brotherhood is all about welcoming these men home and treating them with the respect they so richly deserve.  Sure, like any big family, we have our squabbles and at times, they seem really important.  But, the most important thing is that we remain brothers.  We get over whatever differences we have and we maintain that respect for each other.

I was given the road name of Maverick because of my wandering ways that are the crux of this blog.  A maverick is a steer or cow that's part of a herd, but seems to go its own way.  Marching to the beat of a different drummer, you might say.  The maverick is still part of the herd, but you can never be sure when he'll wander off again.

I guess I fit the mold.  I love being a part of my "herd", the DKMC.  Even when I wander off on some misadventure that takes me on the back roads of America by myself, I always know that this absurd, unbelievable and courageous group of young men have my back.  It's an awesome feeling.

Still, I hope my birth brothers and my DKMC brothers know that with Maverick, they have a brother who operates in a world governed by loyalty and honor, character and integrity, respect and love.

Wedding Ride - Summer of 2013 - Tennessee

From Florence, it was only another 20 miles or so to the Tennessee state line.  As usual, I made that trip a little longer because I had some unique stops I wanted to hit.  So, a few miles south of the state line, I swung east on AL-64 and ran parallel to the state line for a few more miles, not wanting to leave Alabama quite yet.  I took County Road 93 north and crossed into Tennessee on the not so beaten path.  CR-93 became Dobbins Road.  Dobbins Road took me to Warren Hollow Road which took me to Appleton Road which took me to the Big Red Store in Five Points, Tennessee.

Established in 1902, The Big Red Store featured a wide array of merchandise that included everything from coffee to coffins.  Today it has been reopened as as museum of sorts.  It wasn't open when I made my visit so I didn't get to go inside.

According to my map, I could continue down Appleton Road toward the east and ultimately get to Sam Davis Road where my next stop was located.  I made an attempt to do that, but only got a short distance down the dirt road before I decided it was just too small for me and my Harley.  I found a spot to turn around and went back the way I had come.  Instead of turning onto Dobbins Road, I was able to take Warren Hollow Road to TN-11 (Minor Hill Road) and ride in the relative safety of good blacktop to my next stop.

My next stop honored Sam Davis. Sam Davis is called the Boy Hero of the Confederacy.  He served in various combat roles in the Confederate army in 1861 through 1863 during the Civil War.  As a Confederate courier, he was captured by Union troops on November 19, 1863.

This monument honors the site where Sam Davis was captured near Minor Hill, Tennessee on November 19, 1863.

Davis was captured wearing a makeshift Confederate uniform and in possession of Union battle plans.  He would not give the name of who gave him the items.  For this reason, he was arrested as a spy, and was seen as ineligible for the privileges of a prisoner of war.  Instead, he was sentenced by a drumhead military court to die by hanging unless he was willing to divulge the name of his contact.  He is purported to have said, "No, I cannot.  I would rather die a thousand deaths than betray a friend or be false to a duty."

As he was carried to the hanging site sitting on top of his own coffin, Union soldiers along the road begged him to cooperate because they didn't want to see him executed.  Supposedly the officer in charge of the execution was uneasy about the execution because of Davis' young age (Davis was only 21 years old) and calm demeanor and had trouble carrying out his orders.  Davis is alleged to have said to him, "Officer, I did my duty. Now, you do yours."  On November 27, he was executed by the Union Army after being held for only seven days. 

The Sam Davis Memorial in Pulaski, Tennessee at the hanging site.

Davis wrote a letter to his mother before the execution. "Dear mother. O how painful it is to write you! I have got to die tomorrow --- to be hanged by the Federals. Mother, do not grieve for me. I must bid you good-bye forevermore. Mother, I do not fear to die. Give my love to all." There was a postscript for his father, too. "Father, you can send after my remains if you want to do so. They will be at Pulaski, Tenn. I will leave some things with the hotel keeper for you."

The statue to Sam Davis that stands outside the Giles County Courthouse in Pulaski.

Although drawn to Pulaski by the Sam Davis attractions, I found another quaint little southern town.  Pulaski is apparently considered the "Wild Turkey Capital of Tennessee," after its large turkey population.  I discovered this as I walked around the town square and encountered a couple of turkeys sitting on the sidewalks.

These colorful turkeys were sprinkled throughout the town of Pulaski.

Every year, Giles County is one of five to host the Governor's One-Shot Turkey Hunt, where people come from all over the United States to try to bag a turkey in a single shot.

On Roadside America, I had read about a plaque in Pulaski that also got my attention.  This plaque was originally hung on the wall of a law office in the 1920s to commemorate the location where the Ku Klux Klan was founded by a group of Confederate War veterans in 1865.  Apparently, the plaque reads, "Ku Klux Klan organized in this, the law office of Judge Thomas M. Jones, Dec. 24, 1865".  

I say apparently because in 1990 the building was purchased by a new owner.  Instead of removing the plaque and giving Klan supporters a potential lighting rod for demonstrations he reversed the plaque so that now only the smooth bronze surface is visible to passers-by.

The backside of the plaque that supposedly commemorates the location where the KKK was founded in 1865.

The KKK plaque sits less than a block off the town square, so I continued my walk around the town.  Given it was about 12:30 and I hadn't eaten breakfast, my primary goal became to find someplace to eat other than the usual fast food choices.  I was convinced there had to be something on the square given the county courthouse was there.  But, it wasn't until I walked the last block that I spotted Reeves Drugstore and Soda Fountain.

The Giles County Courthouse.  Note the time 12:30 on the tower clock.  I was hungry.

Reeve's was an old fashioned Soda Fountain. 5 cent cokes in the 8 oz. bottles and a short order menu.

A chili dog and a diet coke with chips turned out to be lunch.

After a terrific chili dog at Reeves Drugstore and Soda Fountain, I headed on to Lynchburg, Tennessee.  I had to cruise through the Lynchburg City Cemetery to find my next stop, but I quickly spotted it.  I visited the grave of Jack Daniel.  Most of us know Jack Daniel for his Old No. 7 Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey that's distilled here in Lynchburg. 

A town fire destroyed the courthouse records, and conflicting dates on Jack Daniel's and his mother's headstones have left his date of birth in question.  But, there's strong evidence that the correct birth date is actually September 5, 1849.  Jack died October 10, 1911 at the age of 62.

The welcome center at the Jack Daniel's Distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee.

Despite being the location of a major operational distillery, Jack Daniel's home county of Moore is a dry county, so the product is not available for consumption at stores or restaurants within the county.

Jack Daniel's is the highest selling American whiskey in the world.

From Lynchburg, I made a beeline for Crossville, Tennessee and Interstate-40.  Once I hit I-40, it was going to be interstate the rest of the way home.  For today though, I only needed to get to Johnson City, Tennessee.  I had picked Johnson City because 1) it had a Motel 6, and 2) it would put me within a few hours of home making the final leg of the ride pretty easy (or so I thought).

I enjoyed the Tennessee countryside as I made my way to I-40.  Once I hit the interstate though, it became all about making up time and speed.  The biggest problem with the remainder of my ride was that I-40 and I-81 are major trucking roads.  That meant sharing the road with 18-wheelers.  Frankly, I feel safer among the truckers than I do passenger cars.  While it can be very intimidating to ride alongside tons of steel trailer and rubber, at least truckers know how to use their mirrors and check for a lone motorcyclist alongside them.  A lot of passenger cars can't be bothered with that minor detail and will pull right over into your lane.

I made good time on I-40 with the only problem being passing through Knoxville at rush hour.  Hell, I've done rush hour in Houston and Dallas, Texas and now, Washington, DC.  Knoxville's rush hour ain't shit.  I hit a few rain drops just before stopping for gas off exit 407 on I-40.  If you've driven I-40 around Knoxville, you'll recognize exit 407 as being the one that takes you to Sevierville, Gatlinburg, and more importantly, Dollywood!

I decided to don the rain gear at my gas stop since I had had a few drops and it was looking nasty toward the east.  It turned out to be a smart move because I hadn't gone much farther on I-40 before I hit a major rain storm.  It's a bit of a misleading statement to say I was wearing rain gear.  My rain pants have been held together by duct tape for the last ten years, so I don't want to imply that I actually get any protection from the wet weather.  Generally speaking, the water collects in the crotch of the rain pants and ensures that even the slightest rain shower leaves me looking like a wet my pants once I remove the rain gear.

Still, this was another one of those rain storms that had me questioning my sanity as I rode along behind a car with their emergency flashers going because no one could do more than about 25-mph in the storm.  I'm sure people drove by me thinking, "Geez, look at that poor bastard!"  Of course, what the were really saying was, "Geez, look at the stupid idiot!"  Actually, I have no idea what they were saying because it was raining too hard to be able to see in the car in the lane next to me.

The rain finally ended by the time I got to I-26 and took it south to Johnson City and my Motel 6.  Since I was soaked and they had conveniently put a Domino's Pizza number on my motel key, I decided to order pizza and call it a night.  I had a little more than 500 miles under my belt for the day and found it very satisfying to sit in my room and watch TV and listen to the rain.  Hell, let the pizza man get wet for a while.

My ride home the next day was only 380 miles.  Unfortunately, the first 200 of those miles were in the rain and again, it felt like an idiotic decision to ride alongside 18-wheelers and other traffic in a rain that made it impossible to see more than 100-feet in front of me.  Somehow I survived.  I attribute that to my guardian angel versus my riding skills.

It was a great trip.  I did more than 4700 miles over about eight days of riding.  Man, I love riding that motorcycle!