H is for Hustle to Huntsville

When Women on Wheels® announced Huntsville, Alabama, as the location of the 1999 International Ride-In, I began planning. Huntsville was the trip's centerpiece, but Judy and I made it a comprehensive event by visiting family and friends and doing a bit of sight-seeing in the east.

First, I took off on Big Red and saw relatives in Illinois, Ohio, and Michigan. A couple of weeks later, Judy flew out to visit her brother and his family in Chatham, Virginia. I wound up in Lynchburg, 50 miles north of Chatham, where Judy met me at my friend Peggy’s. The three of us took off on the “Hustle to Huntsville” with Peggy’s car and Big Red as our transportation. Judy and Peggy took turns driving the car and riding two-up with me. If it rained, they both rode in the car.

Driving the rural roads of Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama was mostly peaceful, except for a few near misses when folks driving autos weren’t good at sharing the road. In many cases, it was more nerve wracking for Judy or Peggy, driving the chase car and able to only watch as errant drivers crowded Big Red’s space. Well, they did honk, yell, and make wild gestures, but I’ll bet those other drivers paid no attention.

We arrived at the Ride-In site with a few stories to tell our roommates, Sylvia and Trudy, from Bakersfield. Sylvia had ridden in from Missouri, where she’d been working. Trudy had just completed the Four Corners, riding to each of the four corners of the U.S. in 21 days.

From the list of possible lodgings available, I’d reserved a cabin that would accommodate five people. It was a peaceful place near the lake, where Trudy did fish, and there were kitchen facilities to have some of our meals in.  Cool evenings, we relaxed and chatted away on the deck, getting to know each other even better.

With three motorcycles, we could all ride up to the main lodge for Ride-In programs, test rides, and general hanging out with friends from all over the country.  The group excursion to Jack Daniel’s country in Lynchburg, Tennessee, found us sweltering in the July heat and humidity. But that’s just part of the deal. The sights, camaraderie, and laughter make up for barely tolerable weather.

I did take BMW’s new touring bike out for a test ride. It was about the same size as Big Red, and seemed like it would be easy enough to handle. I felt comfortable just sitting on it, but when we began to roll and I looked through the curved windshield, I got woozy. Nearly sick to my stomach, I turned around within a mile. “Back so soon?” the surprised-looking salesman asked.

I nodded my head and handed over the keys, “I can’t ride that bike. The windshield’s curved too much for me.” And that was the last time I took any bike for a test ride.

From the first night, when our Georgia friend June rode an Elvis impersonator into the pool party, to the banquet on our final night, that Huntsville Ride-In was one of the best. It was even sweeter to share with best buds.

~ xoA ~

G is for Georgia

Georgia is the birthplace of my long-time love affair with motorcycling and Women on Wheels®. Attending my first Ride-In, held in Dunwoody, changed my life. Inspired by the women I met there, I went on to ride for another 22 years. More about Women on Wheels® and its outstanding women when we come to “W.”

Beth and Sunshine in Bakersfield, April 2006

Georgia was on our minds when my friend Beth and I planned our ride from the Oregon Coast to Athens, Georgia, in 2006. A motorcycling double-header would happen that July: the Women in Motorcycling Conference, followed by the Women on Wheels® Ride-In.   Beth riding Sunshine, her bright yellow Suzuki, and I, on Big Red, made a splash of brilliant color as we sped down the highways and through the small towns along our itinerary. 

In Georgia, we met up with friends from the California Sunblazers WOW® chapter. The next morning some of us nervously anticipated the ride through Atlanta’s notorious tangle of freeways and fearsome traffic on our way to Athens. Shirley, who had honed her riding chops zipping around Los Angeles on two wheels and now rode a sports bike, spoke up, “Just stick with me.”  

We reviewed the route and set out. Moving as a unit, our quartet of riders held on tight and stayed close. It was after noon, as we made our way through the fast, steady flow of vehicles. After we reached the other side of Atlanta and were onto a state highway, Shirley turned into a fast-food chicken restaurant. The parking lot was empty, but the lights were on. We circled the building, parked facing the exit driveway, climbed off our bikes, and removed our helmets. At once, all four of us began talking or screaming, telling what we’d felt and thought. “Did you see that car that…?”

What we didn’t know was that we had grabbed the attention of the young fast-food workers inside. There were no other customers and they must have noticed our four motorcycles ride up. As we walked through the doors, all of them stood at the counter -- smiling big and applauding, some whistling. One young woman yelled, “We ain’t never seen four women ride up on motorcycles before!”  That rousing welcome shifted us from horrified to cavalier, and we swaggered up to order our food.

The motorcycling events turned out to be everything we expected -- riders attended from all over the world; close friends and fellow chapter members, as well buddies from years past, showed up; vendors, activities, and seminars made a great program.

What we didn’t expect became a bonus and an enduring gift. Beth and I were leaving the conference center to return to our hotel when two women walked up to us. “Hi,” one said. “Do you know what’s going on here?” Nodding with enthusiasm, we told them about the Women in Motorcycling Conference and that there were nearly 900 folks attending -- most of them women on their bikes.

“Well, we saw a lot of motorcycles near our house and caught a little something about it on the news.  So we thought we’d just come down here and see what was going on.”

Everyone introduced herself. They were Susan and Jen, and asked if they could walk with us back to our hotel so we could continue our conversation. “Sure,” Beth and I said. And we chatted all the way. That was the beginning of the friendship with Jen and Susan.

  

In the next day or two, our hotel phone rang and a voice said, “Annis or Beth?”

“Yes, this is Annis.”

“Well, we got to thinking we’d like to know you two better, so we wondered if we could take you to dinner.”

Beth and I, always up for new experiences and meeting new friends, were delighted. So, we arranged to have Jen and Susan come to our room the next day for a glass of wine before dinner. After an hour of visiting, we walked to a nearby Indian restaurant for a wonderful meal and more conversation with these witty, intelligent, friendly women. It felt like we’d always known them.

Before leaving Athens, I needed to go to the motorcycle shop to pick up an order that had come in. I made a quick call to ask Jen and Susan for help, and they gave me a lift, so I didn’t have to ride in the rain.

I came home telling Judy about the new friends Beth and I had met in Georgia. “I know you’ll just love them,” I said. Judy got a chance to see for herself the following year when their home became part of our itinerary on our cross-country road trip. The ladies welcomed us into their home, and we had an evening of fine food, fun, and friends.

 

Jen and Susan, 2012

My chance to re-connect with Jen and Susan came along two summers ago. I had rented a car to take me from Chapel Hill to the WOW® Ride-In in South Carolina, by way of Georgia. Susan and Jen put me up, and I enjoyed a delightful evening, visiting and catching up on their lives.

I’m still in contact with these women who dared to reach out to strangers that day in Athens. Facebook and email close the distance between our homes, and I follow their humorous cartoon blog, Clay-doh. I am grateful for the heartwarming gift of Susan and Jen and this Georgia connection in my life. 

A is for Arthur's Pass

**Today marks the beginning of the 2014 Writers of Kern Blog Challenge. I told you I had motorcycle stories. During this annual blogging event, I'll be regaling you with 26 of them, A-Z. So now, away we go -- Clutches Out!

Two of the scariest incidents I’ve experienced astride a motorcycle occurred on a tour of New Zealand’s South Island in 2000. The trip was my retirement gift to myself, and I rode a BMW 800, a bike provided by the tour company. Judy came along but rented a compact Toyota Echo and became a part of the adventure. This is the tale of one of those gut-wrenching episodes.

Just the two of us traveled together our last riding day before returning our wheels in Christchurch. The route wound us down the coast and inland through Arthur’s Pass, the highest pass over the Southern Alps. On State Highway 73, we encountered a road crew blasting a narrow, curvy road out of the side of a mountain. Heavy machinery, yellow behemoths, inhabited the area, blocking the single traffic lane. We would have to negotiate the pass with only the help of timed traffic signals at each end of the stretch. We soon learned those signals were out of sync.

When the red light turned green, we naively proceeded, unable to see far enough ahead to discern “the mess.” Navigating a couple of curves, we came upon the snarl and had to brake and stop on a hill. Three vehicles were still in the lane, coming toward us! No place to move over! In order to get to a wider spot, I had to back down the left-leaning gravel-strewn road, countering the tilt of the road. After a bit of maneuvering, all of us managed to squeeze past each other. Judy and I snugged up to the rock to our left, and the cars coming at us crept along with their passenger-side tires half off the cliff.

I let out the deep breath I’d been holding. Whew! The worst was over! But around the next bend, I came upon a huge crane that occupied the entire lane. No big deal after what we’d already survived. We were stopped on a slight hill this time. But, when the equipment moved and we could continue, my eyes bulged as the six vehicles that had been stopped on the other side of the crane headed toward us. For an interminable ten minutes, everyone inched forward, negotiating the pass, while the road crew urged us on with wild gestures and shouting, “You’ve got plenty of room!” 

After untangling, all the vehicles in our line whizzed down the other side of the mountain and stopped at the first café. Judy and I parked the car and bike then hugged each other and screamed. “Plenty of room,” she said, “A feather’s width does not equate to ‘plenty of room’!” Then we groaned our fears and chatted with the Kiwi couple who were in the Toyota SUV ahead of us. Now we were like old friends; we’d survived a helluva experience together.

~ xoA ~

(Photos from the Internet)

Big Decisions

I tend to do a lot of pondering and mulling over a big decision. I let it percolate awhile, testing it out in my mind. Then I put out an inkling or two, trying it out on Judy and a few trusted friends. I mull it more, then decide. It’s not quick, but it's a recipe that works for me.

 

This latest big decision is life changing. It closes a chapter filled with excitement, exploration, lessons learned, and swagger. It alters my identity.

I am letting go of Big Red. It’s time.

My inner wisdom tells me so, and I am listening. Everything has a season, and this one has lasted nearly 21 years, more than 150 thousand miles across the United States and Canada and into Mexico. Extraordinary adventures, scenery, and friendships have forever changed and enriched me.

So, what brought me to this decision? Declining interest in actually getting out there and riding. Friend Bonnie described, ”It’s becoming more job than joy?” For two consecutive years, Big Red hibernated in her Cycle Shell from November to April. I woke her in time to make sure she was roadworthy before heading to Oregon. This summer, I’ve ridden once with Laurie to Elkton and to and from Honda World for Big Red’s regular maintenance.

Long stretches off the bike means a rider doesn’t get much practice. This is not a good thing, given the myriad situations that call for quick response and safe bike handling. Such a cyclist puts herself and others in jeopardy.

So, I think it is wise to pull back while, as my buddy Dennis said, I’m “at the top of my game.” I would rather do that than be forced to quit riding because of an accident or injury. Now, I will concentrate on finding a good home for Big Red while she’s still in good shape, too. She deserves a place where someone else can enjoy the 100K miles she has left in her.

I'm grateful for the special moments, the memories, and the thousands of miles. And, as we bikers say after surviving a distressing incident or a difficult ride, “Now, I have stories.” A lifetime of stories.

~ xoA ~

I is for Intercourse

In the heart of Pennsylvania Amish farm country sits the little village of Intercourse in Lancaster County. It was the scene of the 11^th Women on Wheels® International Ride-In, in 1997. I rode Big Red, our first cross- country solo ride, to get there. It was one of the most memorable and best ever Ride-Ins! For the entire summer, Big Red and I clocked rolled 7,982 miles. 

Along the way to Intercourse, I stayed over with friends in Arizona, Texas, and Georgia. In South Carolina, I visited with Millie, the wife of a motorcyclist I happened to meet in Oregon on my first solo ride the year before. Then I spent a glorious time with my daughter Asila and soon-to-be son-in-love David in North Carolina. It was then that I first met his lovely parents and gave them each a ride on my motorcycle. Before heading for Intercourse, I stopped in at my dear friend Peggy’s in Lynchburg, VA and took her for a ride, too.

A long ride into the night, on dark, undulating roads that wound through cornfields got me to the motel outside of Intercourse where I met up with my friend Trudy. She had ridden in from Bakersfield, and we would share lodging while at the Ride-In. 

Intercourse is just east of Bird-in Hand and north of Paradise. The many quaint shops, bakeries, and restaurants lured us in when we weren’t kicking motorcycle tires and visiting with buddies in the host- motel parking lot. Riding those two-lane country roads, our iron horses juxtaposed against flesh-and-blood horses pulling black buggies, kept everyone supplied with stories.

One of the featured events of the Ride-In was a train ride. A rainstorm had been predicted, but hundreds of us women bikers made our way to the train station in Strasburg anyway. We parked our bikes and picked up our box lunches just before the rain hit. As soon as the train got underway, the torrents came, blowing sideways and drenching everyone, especially those in the open cars. Hairdos trashed and pasted to our heads and clothes soaked through, we still managed to laugh and have a good time. A huge surprise met us when we returned to the parking lot to find a few bikes downed due to the rain and high winds and our helmets full of rain and waterlogged. It took days to dry everything out.

 Now, sixteen years later, when we get together with other WOW® members and reminisce about the Intercourse Ride-In, two things stand out: that train ride is one. “Remember that train ride?” someone asks, and we shake our heads knowingly if we were on it. For anyone who wasn’t there, we can describe it as if it were yesterday.

The other outstanding recollection is of the most awesome-licious banquet in the history of Ride-Ins. Those Amish cooks knew how to put on a banquet. Tables laden with delectable offerings of cooked-from-scratch comfort food and plenty of it delighted us all. Conversations go like this: 

“Were you in Intercourse in ’97?”

“Yes!”

Then simultaneously, “The FOOD!” accompanied by moans of remembered rapture.

The outstanding ride; the food, friends and fun; and the giggles over the name of the village make Intercourse a memorable place that belongs in my Travel Hall of Fame.

~ xoA ~