Guy
Boutin's Motorcycle Touring and Travel Pages
Adventures in Sport
Touring with the Honda ST 1100, 1300 and the BMW 1200RT
Exploring North America...One Road
at a Time
|
Guy
Boutin's Motorcycle Touring and Travel Pages
|
|
Short Ride to Nowhere Last week had been a busy one. I worked portions of 3 other shifts, along with my 2 regular shifts. I spent Friday night, and Saturday at the ballpark, and Sunday I was back on duty. The weather was perfect for riding last week, but overtime beckoned, and the time and a half was too good to turn down. I recall sitting in the fire station, staring out the window and lusting. When you are use to working 2 days a week, a 5 day week takes on new meaning. Sunday was passing quietly, until we received a call about 3pm to respond to International Paper Mill. When we arrived we found a middle aged man crushed by large rolls of paper. We worked frantically to save his life, but his injuries proved to be fatal. It was sad. The older I get, the more these things trouble me. The man went to work, like any other day, but he would not be coming home this time. He was at his job, not a battle. He is expected to come home. I have no idea what caused this accident, all it takes is 1 lapse moment, and a life is lost. After 24 years, I still have not gotten use to the feeling, of being around the recently dead. Back at the fire station, I filled out the necessary reports, all the while thinking of this man's friends and co workers, now going through his locker. I picture a lunch box inside a metal locker, containing a untouched ham sandwich. Made by the loving hands of his wife. His coat hanging on a hook, and pictures of his family taped to the door. Various company memos, and other forgotten letters, scattered about the bottom. The sum of a man's livelihood, now being gathered in a cardboard box. I thought about his time card, still in the rack. Who will punch this man out? Who among them will shoulder that solemn duty? The time clock does not know, he is no longer of this world. It still thinks he is out in the mill working. Yet a friend must now scan the rack for his card, he will not know the slot it is in, only the man that punched it knows that. Anyone else will have to search for it. What if time is kept by some fancy computer, the software demanding a social security number and PIN, to come and go? What will happen then? Will the system forever keep him on the job, as if nothing happened? When I finally got off work Monday morning, I needed some therapy. I was frazzled. I needed time to myself, and the road is the best head doctor I know. I came home and waited around for the sun to warm up the chilly air. I passed the time making a few phone calls, and taking a short nap. At 11am I fired up the ST anxious to get away. It was late morning, I would only have time for 200 miles or so, but that would be enough. But where to go? Don't care, I will just ride, and end up where ever. First things first. Food. And I knew just what I wanted. A deluxe burger from Hamburger King. I jet south down I-65 on a perfect day for riding. Sunny, and 65 cool degrees. Already my spirits are lifted. I slip through the radar traps, construction, and SUVs and merge into the I-85 North lanes when I arrive in Montgomery. I take the Decatur Street exit and find the place with my favorite hamburger. Hamburger King is located just off I-85. It is not much to look at, but they have the best hamburgers I have ever had the pleasure off, and I have sampled them from California to Maine. The place is really busy at lunch time, but my 11:30am lunch window brings me in before the crush. What is life without a good hamburger?
As I pull into the parking lot, the aroma takes me. The King only serves hamburgers, nothing else. The single choice allowed is regular or cheeseburger. The only side items are chips. I sit at the bar, and in few minutes, it is before me. I take mine mustard and ketchup only. It is seasoned by the cook perfectly, and juicy. I hate dry burgers. They are padded out to order, and seared on a old fashioned grill. Nothing cooks a hamburger, like one of these grills. Not broiling, not frying pans, nor "flame broiling". No this grill has been seasoned for years, and years, by the master. It takes thousands and thousands of burgers to season a grill, and the Hamburger King is home to the best one of these instruments, I have ever come in contact with. My mood is much improved, as I ride north out of Montgomery. I-85 is in the book as a north- south route, but the first 150 miles of the highway are actually east-west. While eating lunch, I decided to take a ride to East Alabama, just to see what's going on. I ride 85 to SR 49 north. When I exit I notice a brown haze to the east, and trace it back to a large fire a few miles south. I assume it to be a control burn from the smoke color, and the fact no fixed, or rotor aircraft are near the area. SR 49 is twisty and fun. It takes me over a few hills, past farm houses and barns. The road turns smooth as glass, when I cross over from Macon to Tallapoosa County. Spring comes early to Central Alabama. Already green spots in the grass are beginning to appear. The trees soon will be leafing out. Buds should be sprouting in 2-3 weeks. I think back to the lush green of Miami and the Keys in January. All things are relative. I have been on this road before, but I don't know it very well, so I keep the speed down. I meet a south bound Harley rider, and he waves, but I can't wave back. I am in a tight curve entering a bridge, and notice a surface change on the bridge ahead, and can't leave the handlebars. I hope he doesn't take offense, and quits waving at all Honda riders. Sorry brother. I am having a great ride, and it feels good to be free. I see a sign for Camp Hill, and since I haven't been there in a long time, might as well go check it out, and see what's going on. I turn east on SR 50. A narrow twisty road with barns and homes close to the shoulder. The road is smooth and traffic is zero. The road takes me past a few congested areas. It appears the State cut the road between the houses and barns of several farms. No kidding, a guy walks 10 steps out the back door, crosses the highway, takes 10 more steps, and enters the barn. Six miles after jumping on SR 50, I see Shiloh Cemetery. I notice a nice tree, it looks like a nice place to take a nap. I leave the road and enter the dirt path of
the cemetery. The graves are scattered about, no order can be made of
them. Very old graves are mixed in with new ones. Many do not have
markers, instead they have only a few rocks marking the head. The grass is
high, and not kept. Most of the graves have no flowers. Time and
weather have erased many names from the white bleached out stones. I had a nice 10 minute power nap. I get back on SR 50 and 10 miles later arrive in Camp Hill. The Pine Apple of East Alabama (see the Evergreen Loop Story 2001 for a refresher). The road delivers me to a quiet, run down, tired community. The tiny business district, shut down many years ago, but the Camp Hill PD still maintains a office there. The cruiser parked outside.
A dress shop is trying to make a go of it, in a old rundown building. The inventory appears to be Salvation Army vintage. The store looks closed, but I see bright lights on the inside when I ride by, and home made signs in the windows. Railroad tracks come through town.
Old and faded brick buildings, sit along both sides of the tracks, as they slice
through downtown Camp Hill. A clump of 20 or so wood frame houses can be
found behind the business district. I try to picture in my mind what this
town was like when it was prosperous. When the houses were well kept, the
shops busy and open. Old men on Saturday mornings standing outside the
feed stores. How long ago was that? 20? 30? 40 years? Without taking a census, I guess Camp Hill to be 70 percent black. I cross back over the tracks, and somehow find a open store. I shut the ST down, and a young black boy about 12 stares at me intently. He sits on a wood stool, his socks down around his Nikes. I want to know the Camp Hill story, and ask him if anyone is inside. He responds- "Hey Jackson, there is some white boy out here on a fancy motorcycle wanting to talk to ya". I hear a voice from within-"Well send him in." Inside I find a 60ish black man, his is tall and very dark. He has on a pair of Liberty overalls. I tell him I am just passing through, and was curious about Camp Hill. "Where did everyone go? How long ya lived here." Stuff like that. He speaks in a thick southern accent- " that's some fancy suit ya got on nere." I don't even attempt to explain what it is. Aerostich will not be in his vocabulary. No damn way I tell him it cost 800 bucks. "well son to put it bluntly, Camp Hill died when all the white people died in this town. They owned all the businesses. They were "old money." They had children, but none of them hung around, they all left Camp Hill. When a store owner died, they just closed his shop. They started dying off in the 60s, and it wasn't long after that, the only folks left here were blacks, and the poor white folks that could not afford to go anywhere." "So how come you hung around?" " Born here. I drove a bus in Columbus (Georgia) for 25 years, retired, and came back. Its quiet here, and I plan to live out my years in peace." "Well take care" "good luck son" I hit the road and follow US 280 north to SR 49 north. I am going to Horseshoe Bend National Military Park. Not been there in 15 years, so time to make a visit. As I turned off 280 onto 49 I see a State Trooper out with a log truck. He looks like he is writing him a long list of citations. SR 49 is more of the same to the park. Rolling hills with some nice curves. I love history. Especially military history. I have visited most of this Country's great military parks. Gettysburg, Shiloh, Antietam, Yorktown, and Little Big Horn, can all be found in my picture album. Having visited those places makes it hard to get excited about Horseshoe Bend. At Horseshoe Bend, Andrew Jackson defeated the
Creek Indians, and effectively removed them from Alabama. I rode through
the small park and read the signs. The Creeks wanted to hang on to their
land, and was up for one last big fight. Not formally trained, they were
no match in a conventional battle, against a professional army with modern
weapons. They suffered heavily in the battle, and signed their land over
in the aftermath. Alabama is still alive with Creek culture. Over 250 towns, rivers, hills, and creeks have Creek names. I left the park at 2:30pm. Time to head for home. I wanted to go by the video store before folks coming home from work, stop, and get all the good movies. I took 49 to SR 22 west, and took off for home. I noticed the days are growing longer. It is not dark to almost 6pm. I will enjoy the extra daylight on this ride. I stop for Mountain Dew and sunflower seeds at a gas mart in Alexander City. The home of Russell Mills Sporting Apparel. I get back on 22, and intend to ride the 60 or so miles home non stop, and I do. I ride into a bright western sun, but my tinted shield and Oakleys do the job. I am feeling much better now. I feel rested and content. My mind is now cleared of clutter. I had no time for housekeeping last week. I was feeling closed in. But now, things are back to normal. The images from yesterday have been dealt with, and are now memories. I can't understand why anyone would need drugs, to feel better mentally. All you need is a good motorcycle. I met a lady walking east bound near Rockford. She wears a bright red pink shirt, and I can see her coming from a long way off. It looks as if she washed it with the wrong stuff, and turned her red shirt pink, but heck, what do I know, she might've bought it like that. SR 22 meets U.S. 31 South in Verbena. I turn left, and quickly take care of the last 20 miles back to I-65. The ride is closing down, and has proven to be excellent therapy. For the last few hours, I have been free, clear, and alive. When I cross back into Autauga County, I move up to 75 mph. I can now exercise "professional courtesy", if I come across a Trooper. Just north of the city I go to 65, so I can enter the city from the east, permitting me to swing by Blockbuster. I have been trying to check out a certain movie for 3 weeks. I take the 176 exit, and ride west down Main Street to the video store. Traffic is heavy. I park my bike in the parking lot, go in, and asked the kid mgr- "hey y'all got "Island of the Dead" back in yet." "not yet" "well dang, y'all need more then 1 copy!" "well it ain't exactly Casablanca yanno." "yeah, but I like the zombie movies." I leave Blockbuster empty handed. I pull back in my driveway at 4:30pm finishing a 198 mile day. Not a lot miles, but some great therapy. What started as a ride to no where, did indeed turn out to be a ride to some where. A ride to inner peace.
|
