Motorcycling through Autumn

MC_ride_10-17-2012-5

I have a few favorite roads near my home—curvy, over hill and dale, and alongside a scenic river. These roads are perfect for motorcycling, but especially in the autumn.

The sun seems a little brighter, and the sky more blue as golden leaves fall from the trees. The wind on my face is crisp and refreshing. The motorcycle purrs along waiting for the throttle to be twisted. But, it is not to be.

The moment is surreal, not to be rushed but savored. This is motorcycling through autumn, and I am pacing myself, taking it all in to refresh my spirit.

See you on the highway.

Brent

Roads that intrigue

Are you intrigued by roads? Highways that seem to go off into the distance? Are you compelled to see what is down this road or that one?

MC_Ride_6Jun2012-7

I was talking with a friend about differences in roads. He lives in Montenegro, Europe. I’m here in the Cincinnati, Ohio area of the USA. It was my first Facebook video chat, and it was wonderful to finally see his face and hear his voice.

Goran says travel in Europe is quite different than the USA. The roads there are not like the United States where highways can be straight as an arrow, like out west, and you can see for miles. European roads are through mountains and valleys. The curves can reduce speed and require more time to travel. Our conversation gave me pause for thought about highways and roads, and their intrigue.

I have been known to turn down a road because it looks interesting. Where does it go? Where does it connect or come out? What will I see along its path?

MC_Ride_6Jun2012-13

Does it have lines? Lines? Yes, lines. Major highways and most roads have lane markings. But those rural country roads like Halls Creek Road (top photo) have no lines. To my knowledge and according to the Warren County map, it is such a minor road to serve the locals, that the county has not given it a County Route number. It is only known by its name. And of course, it meanders along Halls Creek, from whence its name comes.

What about gravel roads? Well, I’ve never seen anybody attempt lane markings on a gravel road. Would be kind of silly, wouldn’t it. But, that gravel road goes somewhere. A friend in Nevada, J. Brandon, says, “We have state routes that are gravel!”

That’s the intrigue of roads. There is a history and a purpose. And, they carry us forward to sights and sounds we might never have seen before. Roads are much more than a convenience for travel, they connect people to places and other people. They connect history and stories. And of course, they take us on our adventure.

If you want to get somewhere as fast as possible, take the interstate highway. But if you want to see anything, take a road less traveled. See where it leads.

See you on the highway.

Brent

Magnificence of Solitude

The highway disappears over the horizon in the desert.
Someone built this highway, but there are no houses along its path.
No other vehicles are visible, nor have been for some time.

Mountains in the distance. Sagebrush and cactus along the road.
A summer thunderstorm refreshes the earth to the west.
The rains wash off the dust and release the aroma of the desert.

The solitude is magnified, magnificent and spiritual.
Not only am I traveling alone. I am alone on the highway filled with euphoria.
My peace and well-being conjoins with the smallness of my existence.

See you on the highway.

Brent

Stop light racing

Phone photos 003

The stop light at the top of the hill
holds back the two lanes of cars and trucks
ready to race forward.

The street below the light is empty when the light turns green.
Dozens of cars speed forward,
each trying to get ahead or out maneuver the others.

Down they come, changing lanes and passing.
The street is filled with moving masses of metal and glass on rubber
while drivers remain anonymous.

At the bottom of the hill,
they bunch up again at the next stop light.
The street behind is nearly empty.

At the top of the hill, the next bunch of cars anxiously wait to launch.
The process repeats itself from stop light to stop light.
Nobody wins.

See you on the highway.

Brent

Motorcycling on a beautiful November day

“The weather looks good. So are we on?”

“Yes. I’ll meet you in Brookville about noon. We’ll find some lunch and enjoy a ride.”

“See you then.”

And with that brief conversation with my brother, Brian, the meet-up and motorcycling adventure was about to begin. Well, what’s an adventure? Any successful ride that ends safely back at home can be an adventure.

Although I have been living in the Cincinnati, Ohio, area for about five years, my first encounter with riding in southeastern Indiana came six years ago when I received my first assignment writing a feature tour article for RoadRunner magazine. The article was published almost a year later.

How does one describe the joy of motorcycling while riding such joyous roads? My route to Brookville? Avoid the interstates. Take the back roads through the countryside, and so it was as I motored west on Ohio SR 129 through Hamilton and the rural area of southwestern Ohio until I reached the Ohio-Indiana state line at a merging of routes at Scipio. On 129, you can’t see the historical buildings of this hamlet. They are better seen on SR 126, and when 129 and 126 meet at the line, you are now on Indiana SR 252 and diving deeper into the hills and curves made by glaciers millions of years ago forming the valleys and tributaries on either side of the Whitewater River.

About 18 miles from the state line, I have scooted through the hills and down into Brookville. As I cross the bridge over the tail waters from Brookville Lake, I quickly look up and down stream. Fly fishers are in the water pursuing the elusive brown trout that populate the waters. Brian claims this stretch of water is the best trout fishing in Indiana.

I am early. Brian will not be here for maybe 30 minutes, so I decide to scout out a place to eat. Apparently he did not like the biker bar where we ate some time ago, so we needed to find a new restaurant or sandwich shop. First south on US 52, Main Street, and then north. I spy a couple of places but decide to ride west on US 52 to meet him on the highway. Nearly eight miles away, and at the historical village of Metamora, we pass each other. Turning around quickly, we pull over and decide to eat there in Metamora at the Hearth Stone Restaurant.

After lunch, and a good one at that, Brian decides he needs to return home for other scheduled activities. I scan the map and decide to follow Brian west on US 52 to Indiana SR 121 and north to Connersville. On the map, it’s just a line on paper, but as I approached the junction, and waved goodbye to my brother who continued on US 52, I realized this road was one I traveled in that first RoadRunner article. It is far from a straight road. Identified as the Whitewater Canal Scenic Road, it twists and turns along the edge of the hillsides through several small towns. Pushing north, I turn east on SR 44 at Connersville and turn towards home—I have reached the halfway mark on this ride.

The ride towards home is uneventful, and yet wonderful. SR 44, east to the state line where it becomes Ohio SR 725, is rural. Farmers are in the field taking in the last of the corn with those giant harvesters. Tractors with huge dually wheels pull the grain trailers to the side of the road and await the trucks to take the grain to the elevators. Yes, autumn is in the air, still, in November.

At Germantown, I turn south to catch SR 123 which will angle southeast through Carlisle, Franklin, the crossroads known as Red Lion, to Lebanon and then south on SR 48 to home—about 150 miles of joy.

These are some of my favorite roads—the best two-lane highways, blue highways as William Least Heat Moon would call them. These roads are not for making time. If you want speedy travels, get on the interstate. If you want to see the small towns, white-steeple chapels on the hillside, farmers working the fields, and neighbors enjoying the day outside, then the back roads are for you, for they are a joy to motorcycle.

See you on the highway.

Brent