Wisps of snow on the higher Virginia mountains were a sign of things to come.
A motorcycle road trip in February? Sure, if you live in San Diego. But what if you live north of the Mason-Dixon line, where instead of happily choosing the most enjoyable route, issues of planning include avoiding freezing rain?
It’s testimony to just how bad my cabin fever gets by the end of February that I just finished a 1,480-mile weekend trip, 90% of it on interstates. The kind of trip only February could push me to contemplate, even appreciate.
For a few months, my wife had been planning to fly to Savannah, Ga., for a professional conference. A plan formed in my head, and at first I kept it there. Then I let it out to judge her reaction. What if, weather permitting, I rode down to spend the weekend with her?
She was positive on the idea (I married wisely and carefully), so it was just a matter of waiting until the last minute to see if conditions would make it possible.
The verdict: barely. I got a 100-mile head start on the ride from Ohio to Georgia by spending the night at my parents’ place in West Virginia, and my planned early-morning departure was delayed until 11 a.m. by the tiniest amount of freezing drizzle overnight. But by late morning, the temperatures were in the high 30s and I was on my way. Shortly after 9 p.m., the Versys was parked in Savannah and I was walking to the hotel in 60-degree night air.
Some welcome: snow. Didn’t even have that in Ohio.
Not that I didn’t face any challenges on the way south.
At 3,500 feet in elevation, give or take a step ladder or three, the West Virginia Turnpike entered a cloud on Flat Top Mountain. That was the only time I began to wonder just how close to the freezing point the road might be. But all stayed well. The first snow appeared on the higher mountains in Virginia, but the biggest challenge was the infamous fog near Fancy Gap, Va., where the Appalachians meet the Carolina Piedmont and a rapid descent from the mountains is like diving into a white void. Two years ago there was a 75-vehicle accident on this section of the road, despite the fog warning signs that sprout as thick as the trees.
This is better. Still no leaves on the trees, but it’s 70 degrees in rural Georgia.
But in Savannah I enjoyed some warmth while strolling River Street and had a great dinner at 17 Hundred 90 with my wife. She picked up some Tupelo honey and I bought some peanuts. Some of the latter were a gift, because when she flew home, I rode north into Georgia to spend a night with a cousin and his wife, whose company I always enjoy but see very rarely. I spent a warm evening sitting on his deck, listening to the owls discuss mating season, and before sunrise the next morning, I was on my way, once again with a 100-mile head start on the journey, thanks to their hospitality.
I know all the objections. I have my answers to each one, though I realize they won’t make sense to everybody, or even to most. It’s dangerous. And there’s danger in sitting on the couch in front of American Idol with a bag of Doritos, danger of diabetes and heart disease and dying bored. A car would be more comfortable. Have you ever looked around and observed just how rarely in modern society we choose a less comfortable option? And thought about what that means? Look at all that salt on the road. It’ll chew up your bike. I plan to ride it to the end of its useful life, using it as it was made to be used, not preserving it for future generations to admire. Frankly, it’s not that beautiful.
There are many more objections. Some of them, in balmier months, I’d share myself, such as spending two days making time on interstates when there are far more interesting backroads to explore. But February in Ohio does strange things to the mind. Like pushing me to find any excuse for a road trip.
