Why I'm Boycotting
NASCAR

September 14^th, 2005

muse@bikerenews.com

Night had fallen. Dew had turned to drizzle. Bristol was 20 miles to the east. No problem. This is the thought process of a contented biker. I knew that in 30 minutes, I'd unpack the bike, get something to eat, and turn in for the night.

I made it to Bristol and turned north on I-81 to give myself a better chance of finding a motel. I remind you that my idea of camping is heading out and finding a motel when I get tired. After a couple of exits, I found a motel.

160,000 NASCAR Fans laughing at Gary...

As I walked into the lobby, the receptionist gave me a strange look. I figured it was biker prejudice coupled with a reaction to my wet dog smell. Walking up to the counter, I asked, in a very polite voice, if I could have a room. The receptionist asked if I was pasting through. Thinking this was a pretty stupid question, I answered, yes.

The receptionist proceeded to explain to me, in an "Elementary Teacher Voice," that Bristol was hosting NASCAR races and there probably wasn't a motel room to be had in a 40-50 mile radius of Bristol.

The lobby started to spin, and a vision of me sleeping on a park bench in the rain started to materialize. Thanking the young lady for her patience, I shuffled outside. What was I going to do? Where was I going? Damn my free spirited, no motel reservation policy!

Despite wanting to sit down in the parking lot and hope that a motel guest would offer me their room, I knew I had to go somewhere. No sense going south to Tennessee or back west toward Cumberland Gap. I thought of heading east on US-58, but I knew that the chance of finding a motel between Bristol and the Blue Ridge Parkway was pretty slim.

Of course, the fact that if I went east I would have to travel through the twisting roads of Mount Rogers National Recreation Area didn't intimidate me for a minute. Just because the last time I went through the park, I dropped my bike in one of the 90 degree turns on a dry, bright, sunlight day was not part of the equation. The fact it was 9:00 PM and raining, DID NOT influence my decision. I just thought my chances of finding a motel were better heading north on I-81. Let it go, OK!

In a semi-daze, I got back on the bike and headed north. I soon realized I had forgotten to put on my rain suit. This was quickly reinforced by the first (of many) 18-wheelers that deposited a swimming pool full of water spray on me. The eternal optimist, I told myself that the receptionist must have been wrong. There was no way a NASCAR race could fill up every motel in Bristol. It didn't matter that the racetrack could hold 160,000 spectators. I knew there would be a room a couple of exits up the interstate.

Taking comfort in my reestablished confidence, I gutted out the bombardment of water spray for a couple more exists, and found another motel. A weaker man would have admitted defeat after the first motel. A lesser man would have admitted defeat after the second motel, but it wasn't until I visited a third motel with the lobby lights off and a "NO VACANCY" sign in the window that I accepted that I was in the middle of another "Gary Adventure".

To this day, I cannot believe that 160,000 NASCAR fans conspired to keep one lone bike out of Bristol's motels. Don't they have anything better to do than plot against bikers?

I pulled into a gas station with a covered over-hang, filled up the bike, and reviewed my tactical options. "A" - I could wait out the rain and hope that the gas station attendant would let me stay parked under his over-hang all night. Or, "B" - I could mount up and continue north until the ugly memories of NASCAR and Bristol were washed from my road weary mind.

Motel in Marion

I did what any man would do. I put on my rain suit (it is never too late to put on a rain suit). I threw my leg over the bike and headed north. I wasn't going to let those NASCAR fans see me crying under my goggles. I held my head high (but not above the windshield) and began my tractor-trailer rain dance up I-81. Long live the free spirited!

To save you the agony of listening to my trip (or my having to relive it), about 45 miles up I-81 I found a motel room in Marion. All I can say is that this was probably a very nice place to stay in the 1950's, but I was wet, tired, and needed refuse. For $98 I was given a room key and a free bucket of ice. I called home and went to sleep.

DAY 3

When I woke up the next morning, there weren't any bluebirds singing "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah". But, the sun was out and the water seemed to have drained off the street. Looking at my map, I was happy to see that VA-16 ran from Marion directly to US-58 and Volney, my last Grand Tour stop. I packed up, filled up, and headed south on VA-16.

I found 30 miles of road that ran through the Mount Rogers National Recreation Area. The road had all of the twist and turns you would expect that close to the tallest mountain in Virginia (5,729 ft). It was wonderful. Maybe there is something to karma. I took my NASCAR Fan beating like a man, and I was being rewarded with a prefect morning ride.

If the ride to Roaring Run Grocery and VA-16 were the best side roads on this year's Grand Tour, Conklin's Trading Post in Volney was this year's best stop. As I road down VA-16, I hoped that Conklin's would have at least a pre-packaged honey bun that hadn't already exceeded its expiration date. To my amazement and wonder, Conklin's had a restaurant that was open for breakfast. After a pair of gravy biscuits and a stack of mini-potato pancakes, I would have been happier with a morning nap rather than resuming my ride. But, with no motel in sight and miles to go before I slept, I broke out the map.

Keep in mind that I had accomplished two of my objectives. I had finished the Grand Tour and I finished my quest to travel all the interstates in Virginia. As I looked at the map, I didn't want to repeat a ride east on US-58. After studying the map for a short time, a bold line seemed to blink on and off. I realized VA-40 started (or finished) just north of Stuart and finished (or started) on VA-10 by Surry. A new objective (#6), ride the length of VA-40. I bet you thought I had learned my lesson - HA!

Energized by my new objective, I hopped on the bike, headed east on US-58, north on VA-8 at Stuart, and east on VA-40. For the next 20-30 miles I was on the most challenging ride of the year. There was more leaning, down shifting, white knuckle throttling than any ride I'd been on since the Costa Brava trip last year.

At times, I was embarrassed by how slow I was going. At other times, I was amazed by how fast I was going. There was no thought of the next town or the next gas stop. There was only time for the next curve and how to control the bike and me. I surprised myself on a left-handed uphill curve that had me into a semi-serious lean. Another bike came from the other direction and we both gave the cruiser low wave. I'm still not sure whether my foot or my hand was closer to the ground. It wasn't until I was closing in on Rocky Mount that my heart beat went back to normal.

As I cruised along VA-40's two lane roads past Greta, Brookneal, and Keysville, I reflected on how much fun I'd had. I had toured with the big boys on Virginia's interstates at some pretty hefty speeds. I was reduced to some second gear turns on Virginia's back roads. And, I was cruising through the heart of Virginia's piedmont fat, dumb and happy. The first two I come by honestly, but the third was a cause and effect issue. I went for a bike ride, I was happy, a simple case of cause and effect.

It was somewhere around Fort Pickett, that I started to weigh my options again. I know, this is never a good thing. Well every rule has an exception. Although I had planned on being gone for four days, I knew that I would be able to get back to Virginia Beach late in the afternoon. I figured I had completed the Grand Tour objective, the interstate tour objective, and I would complete my ride along VA-40, so why not head for home. After all, I could use Sunday to pack for a family vacation to Hatteras. I was headed home.

All too soon, I found myself nearing VA-10. With each passing town, something started to bother me. After calculating and recalculating, I figured I would end up with 1,800 miles on the bike by the time I got home. I started to hear little voices in my head. "You can't go home with only 1,800 miles on the bike," one said. Then the voice of reason said, "You're tired, you're hungry, and any more mileage will force you into night time riding." Back and forth, back and forth, the voices argued for 50 miles.

Being a man of reason and adventure, I decided a compromise was in order. I would extend the trip, but only by a couple hundred miles. After all, 2,000 miles is a respectable number. Once that was decided, I was faced with another dilemma. I was running out of road. When VA-40 ended, I would be around Surry with only a short ride to Virginia Beach.

I did what any logical, rational, male, biker, who has to figure a way to justify his behavior, would do. I opened up my map and started doing thumb measurements of mileage. Of course, I was trying to get as much virgin road as I could find. After all what good is a new objective (#7) of traveling 2,000 miles, if it's on previously traveled roads. Once again you have traveled into the inter-workings of my brain.

To cut short this visual of a compulsive disorder at work, I decided to run down VA-10, jump on VA-258, ride it south to NC-158, east past Elizabeth City to Currituck, north to I-64 in Chesapeake, and finish in Virginia Beach. A perfectly good plan!

I won't bore you with the details of the journey. It wasn't as good as some of the earlier rides, but it was OK. The problem came as I approached Chesapeake. The odometer signaled that I would be about 60 miles short of my goal. "How could my thumb have lied to me," I shouted. There was only one thing to do. I would have to travel through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel and head up I-64 west for about 25 miles. It was the only logical and rational course of action left to a compulsively defective brain.

The short version, I went through the HRBT, traveled 25 miles, turned around and headed home to Virginia Beach. I got there at 10:00 PM. I had logged 2,001 miles in 62 hours. My family was happy to see me a day early. I have bragging rights to all of my accomplishments. Of course, it will have to be to people who don't read this article, but I'm sure there are a lot of those folks around.

Until the next time, if you see a gray-headed guy on a purple motorcycle looking at a map in a rest area, you may want to take a picture. You can always submit it to Biker eNews labeled "Free Spirited Genius at Work."

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