Ride Diary

Crash Test Dummies Fall Tour - III

I was due to meet the crew at the Wytheville, Va., campground about 5PM so I plotted a course via Lynchburg. It was a fast run down 29, so I decided to take a break and visit the National D-Day Memorial in Bedford, Va. Now, a disclaimer is in order. Architecture is what I do for a living and I'm a firm believer in the superiority of classical, traditional architecture to the crud that's been built in the past 60 years. I found the D-Day memorial to be utterly disappointing, banal beyond description, and a poster child for the folly of trying to make architecture something it is not, namely a movie. Films can be a sublime art form and so can architecture, but their power derives from a totally different sets of attributes.

The memorial sits on a hillside outside Bedford, the town chosen due to the high casualties among Bedford citizens during the Omaha Beach landings. I'll leave you with a couple of comments. The siting is a mess. One enters this heavily narrative monument on the Nazi "Fortress Europa" side. It is meant to be experienced in a linear fashion (it's really a movie, remember) from a stylized English garden, through the sea and surf, to the beach and then up the fortified wall (actually restrooms with bunker-like slits for windows) to the triumphal arch at the top. Wouldn't it make more sense to place oneself conceptually as an Allied soldier in England at the beginning and design the approach accordingly?

Secondly the poor siting means that the best parts of the monument, the central sculptural group of GIs scaling Hitler's "impregnable" Atlantic Wall, is rarely lit to its best advantage because it faces north. This is Architecture 101, folks.

On the positive side, it does have dedicated motorcycle parking for red VFRs. It is a shame that an event of such importance and triumph for America, and indeed for all of civilization, has to be commemorated in such a ham-fisted, artless fashion. Have we lost the confidence to build things like the Lincoln Memorial? But enough of my kvetching. Yeah, also, don't wear brightly colored leathers in public unless you want to endure lots of wisecracks like "where did you park your spaceship?"

I high-tailed it out of there for a run to Rocky Mount, where I picked up VA Rt. 40. A few miles outside of town, a welcome sight, a sign saying "road not suitable for large trucks." Yippee, twisty nirvana for about 25 miles all the way to Floyd on the other side of the Blue Ridge. Nice weather too for motorcycling, about a perfect a day as one could hope for.

Jim, Dan, Bob, Don and Butch were waiting for me under the picnic shelter where the campground lets us park the bikes. I rolled up only to be informed that one rider, Rich, had already gone down that afternoon. The Dummies Curse had wasted no time in making itself felt. That got the evening off on a down note. We retired to the local truck stop (didn't we vow not to eat there again?), chowed down on some grub and Jim made contact with the emergency room at the Galax hospital. Rich was being treated for broken ribs and a collapsed lung.

Saturday dawned cold and misty. We tanked up on breakfast carbs at the truck stop and then said good-bye to Dan who headed back to his home in NC. With undue confidence I elected not to wear rain gear over my leathers. Forty-five knee-knocking minutes later I pulled over to don them, after crossing Walker Mtn. on US 52. A nice road but gravel and wet leaves put the kibosh on any hooliganism. The weather lifted a little and we had a fun, fast ride up VA42 north of Bland, took a back road cutoff through Eggleston and when picked up 42 again for the run to the New Castle overlook. Yours truly took the lead and rocketed by a few meandering cages. I was having a blast and enjoying the bike and the day immensely.

We pressed on to another set of back roads, ending up in Clifton Forge and a calzone lunch of gigantic proportions. We passed a Corvette club on an outing. Looks like we found a twisty road all right. After lunch we found our way back to 42 and again it was off for a fast-paced run north to Harrisonburg, home of many poultry "processing plants" (read slaughterhouses) and the attendant smells. We got out of there ASAP and began more mountain assaults. US 33 climbs abruptly about twenty miles outside of Harrisonburg for a very entertaining half-hour climb and descent of Shenandoah Mtn. Unfortunately, right after that Butch ran wide on a curve and dumped his bike. Rider and bike were relatively unscathed. The bike had some scratches, dents and a broken fairing, but was otherwise rideable. Butch suffered a little road rash and a sore shoulder. I decided being cold was starting to be a distraction, so I pulled out the heavy ordnance, Gerbing's heated jacket and gloves and their 100 watts of pure warming power. Somehow, in the midst of all this activity and getting Butch and bike on the road I dropped the keys to my GIVI luggage without realizing it. (More on this later.) After a little bit, we pressed on to our final destination, Seneca Rocks, WV.

Seneca Rocks is a huge monolith which dominates the valley. While the scenery was drop-dead gorgeous the fleabag motel and adjacent restaurant didn't quite measure up, to say the least. Amidst what has to be the world's biggest collection of tabloid newpapers and Oprah Magazine back-issues, the joint was run by folks who must spend their leisure hours watching the Bill Clinton deposition videos. Q-"Is this pie made from canned blueberry filling?" A-"It was made fresh today." They totalled my bill wrong too and I knew instantly when I saw it. "Ma'am, I think you'll find the total on this should be $7.24 plus tax." It said $6.34. She plugged it into a calculator four times before it read the right amount. Sheesh. And, I've rarely encountered people in the service industry with a wider array of lame excuses for poor performance. The advance team (namely me, I visited Seneca Rocks back in August) needs to be taken to the woodshed for chosing Yokum's.

About this time the key debacle roared to life as all I wanted in the world was a hot shower and a change of clothes, but the clothes were locked in the GIVIs. I rummaged furiously through my leathers and tank bag in vain. The only thing left to do was to ride the 35 miles, through increasing cold and the pitch black, back to the scene of Butch's get-off in the hope they were lying there where I used them for the last time. So back to the bike and a cautious ride through the mountains. I navigated a small town and then was getting out of town with a little extra gusto when I spotted a cruiser. Dead meat. Just a matter of time until the blue lights come on. Sure enough, the key debacle was snowballing. "Do you know why I stopped you?" "I was probably going a little fast," I said, trying to be vaguely factual without directly admitting to anything. "38 in a 25 zone. Your license please, sir." I spun my tale of woe about the keys and about being distracted by the quest for said keys and he served me with a warning and a little advice about watching out for deer. "They've wrecked three cruisers already this year." To make a long story short, the keys were right there by the side of the road where I thought they would be, thank goodness.

Sunday came crisp and cold, with a coating of frost on the bikes. I was getting the sense some of our number were starting to yearn for urban civilization, the internet, cell phone service and decent coffee. This yearning was perhaps triggered by adjacent table talk like "he's real scientific, he doesn't do healing or anything, just spiritual readings."

Anyway, we decided to split up. Don, Bob and Butch headed directly for NC, while Jim and I set out on a quest to ride to the highest point in the state, Spruce Knob's 4863 feet above sea level. A glance at the Garmin GPS read 1700' on the valley floor, so we had a way to go, 3,000 feet in elevation gain and about a dozen miles of gravel road each way. The nice, newly paved and quite twisty road soon gave way to gravel and the occasional boulder, including several switchbacks which were "interesting" on a bike like a VFR which thrives on smooth, unsullied asphalt and not much else. Jim rocketed ahead on his Nighthawk and I met him at the top for the short hike to the summit. The views from the road were stellar and the leaves were at their peak. This was definitely one of the high points of the trip. Jim and I said our goodbyes and I then embarked on the four-hour trip back to DC.

All things considered it was a great trip and a welcome respite from all that's going on in the world. It was about 950 miles for me and some great roads and great company. I hope Rich is making a speedy recovery.