Ride Diary, AKA, Palmetto Fiasco

The next morning we hooked up with two BMW riders from the Hampton Roads area and hit the road for Columbia, following US 258 down into North Carolina and picking up I-95 and I-20 into Columbia. We took the "scenic" route getting into town and picked up our obligatory six-packs of beverages. Hey, 600 points is 600 points. The weather was turning balmy, much better than the 28 degrees that had greeted us that morning. Nice weather for playing moto mechanic in the parking lot. The chain needed a lube and adjust, which all the "shafties" in the vicinity enjoyed to no end.

Settling into the hotel, the Weather Channel foretold ominous news. Warm moist air off the Gulf and an artic blast were conspiring to create heavy rain on Saturday. We attended the rider's meeting and then returned to strategizing. We decided on an upland trip, possibly as far as the mountains, with plenty of interstate highway "bail out" points along the way. Earlier that week I had told Tom that I was going on this ride "come Hell or high water." The latter part of that phrase turned out to be terribly prescient.

4:45 came awfully early, a designation on the clock that more properly says "afternoon espresso break" in my world. We tucked in to the continental breakfast and received the final weather briefing. 35 and raining in Greenville, SC. Oooo. Right on our intended path, too. On the bikes for the odometer calibration exercise and the rain starts. First a drizzle, then steady, then a "goose drowner." Tom and I headed for our first "bonus" location, a church near Saluda. GPS showed it just off Hwy. 178. We homed in for our first kill of the day. It wasn't there. (Turns out our rally sheets had the wrong GPS coordinates that put us on the wrong road.)

Oh well, let's get the next one, in the town of Saluda. The date of a treaty between the colonists and the aboriginals. Nailed that one, but yours truly was wet and cold. Boots soaked through, gloves soaked through, rain-spotted glasses, face shield steamed up and no hope that the weather would get better, only that it would get worse. Gerbings were doing what they could, but it was an uphill battle against all that water. Sleep deprivation, fatigue and fear of running off the road got the better of me and Tom graciously gave me leave to split up. I decided to head back to Columbia and Tom continued in his quest.

I pulled back into Columbia about two hours later, dried off, etc. I noted I was not the only one to bail that day. I saw a pretty VFR800 sitting next to the hotel too. I flipped open the phone book and found a local Honda place. I put on my gear and went over there. I also plugged some local GPS points in hopes of salvaging a few bonus points. I didn't want the humiliation of finishing dead last! At the Honda place I got a new Fog City, which I hoped would make it easier to see better.

I then went over to one of the bonus locations, a quarry, up behind a neat old Victorian-era cotton mill. You had to identify the color of the dump trucks, but to do so you have to climb a muddy embankment littered with prominent "no trespassing signs," no doubt backed up by snarling guard dogs. I blew that off and went in search of gas, a lottery ticket and a six-pack. Not to drink on the spot, although it may have been a good idea for sorrow-drowning purposes back at the hotel, but to claim 1,000 points, since my bonus hunting was turning into such a splendid success. I came out of the store and the bike, click, click, grind, not starting. Battery had gone toes up.

Had the notorious VFR electrical gremlins claimed another victim? No, as it turned out, just a low battery from too many electric garments and too few RPMs in the last half hour. I trudged across the Congaree River bridge and into the hotel. I got a jump from one of the event staff and really decided to call it a day at that point. Tom rolled in about three hours later with tales of rain, some bonus point successes and a visit to a Greenville BMW shop to get dry gloves. We chatted with a lot of the participants and everyone had a good time and I managed to avoid being the goat. Someone actually scored fewer points. Those six packs saved my bacon! Here are the final standings

There was some more fiddling with the VFR that evening. Not wanting to delay our departure getting a jump in the morning, I went out to start the bike. Grind, grind, sputter. No go. So Tom pushed me around the parking lot in hopes of bump-starting. There was not a lot of traction to try to turn over an engine, so I prevailed again on Brian for a jump and then rode the bike around the freeways a bit to charge her up. It worked, no problems in the morning. She fired right up.

After a sound night's sleep, we said our goodbyes to the other riders and made our way up I-20 and got off on US15 for a little romp across the countryside. We were able to wick it up a little between the town limits signs (beefy third-gear roll ons getting the hell out of Dodge) and had a pretty fast run up into NC, where we picked up I-95. We refueled bikes and bodies (bikes at BP, bodies at Waffle House) and Tom peeled off for home. I had an uneventful ride up 95 to DC. I finished up with about 1,200 miles from this whole extravaganza.

Some things learned: