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

The Spring Ride
  April 3rd, 2003

After returning from the Heartland last fall, I'd been keeping a low profile.  Miles ridden this winter were way down compared to previous years.  The weather not really a factor in my hibernation, chalk it to working overtime, and toasted tires.

I spent the winter months, upgrading my equipment, enjoying the holidays, watching baseball, and planning my upcoming trips for June and August.  I had worked many double shifts, banking time to make the tours happen this summer, without using vacation time or other leave.  I also worked a lot of overtime fatting up my monthly pension, due when I retire next year.  I spent many cold and dreary days locked in my study on my computer or atlas, dreaming and planning the rides to come.  I recall gazing out my window at bare trees, brown grass, and overcast skies,  vivid reminders of my long ride through the Heartland.  Many days the temps in Alabama never went above 50.  Last November not a single 70 degree day was recorded for the month, the first time in 40 years that had happened.  Central Alabama logged over 35 nights where the temp fell to freezing.  Another first in many years.  Thankfully, we had no snow or bitter cold ( under 20 degrees), nothing like the brothers up north went through.  Still, it was a gruesome winter by South Alabama standards.  However,  managed to ride several days a week, just no long rides.

The one redeemer in all this?  Spring comes early in South Alabama.  By mid March leaves begin showing on trees, and the grass is green.  Warm days and cool nights rule the week.  By early April the Dogwoods and flowers begin to bloom, and a anxious Long Rider turns his thoughts to the warm days and rides ahead. 

April 3rd.  The sky is blue, the temps in the high 60s, and I am off work for a few days.  Time to ride.  

I sat at the kitchen table, looking over my atlas.  The same atlas that had showed me the way to California, Nova Scotia, the Keys, and the Heartland, was now helping me plan a ride close to home.  How odd it seemed to have the ST warming up, and not planning a long tour but a short day ride instead.  

I picked a few routes, then stuffed the essentials in my Roadcrafter and saddlebag.  Wallet, phone, lined gloves, and a insulated liner in case I fail to make it back before the sun goes down.

I pulled out of the driveway at 9am, excited to be on a long ride.  Both my tires are toast, and I kept that in mind as I rode down to the Entec station on US  31 South to top off the tank.

I followed US 31 South through the dried up and lifeless West side of Montgomery.  This area of the city is hopeless, and several plans are being kicked about to revitalize the area, but I have little hope any will work.

I took US 82 West out of the city, past the airport.  You can always tell you are near a airport by the endless rows of car rental shops, and motels.  A large passenger plane was landing when I came by.

It doesn't take long to escape the sprawl of the city, and in a few short miles I find myself in Lowndes County.  One of the poorer counties of Alabama.  It is mostly rural, dotted by a few small towns.

US 82 attaches Selma to Montgomery, the route used in the 60s by Dr. King when he led marchers on the famous Civil Rights trek to Montgomery for voting rights.  Markers along the highway mark areas where they camped.  

I veer off US 82 to SR 21 West, a quiet road.  The sun is now shining on me, and after a miserable winter a most welcome sight.  Yellow flowers cover the fields I ride by, and clothes flap in the wind hung on the lines of the farm houses.  My mind is empty of any important thoughts on this ride, it meanders from the fun to the mundane.  

I passed a log truck and a old pick up, both never saw me till I was  around them.

The highway takes me to Hayneville, the small county seat of Lowndes County.  I drop my speed down to the posted 35 mph.  This town notes the beginning the "Black Belt", a narrow swath that cuts across Alabama and Mississippi, that is 85-95% black folks.  The Black Belt can be categorized as poor and rural.  Alabama's racial past is not something anyone is proud off.  I moved to Alabama in 1966 escaping the most turbulent of those times.  Despite being a native Virginian, I grew up in Norfolk, a city with a huge military populace.  The military is one of the first groups to desegregate, and as a result, Norfolk had a better grip then most other places in the south.

The parochial school I attended there, accepted blacks, unlike any school in Alabama at that time.  Race has come a long way in Alabama, not perfect, but better. In no other part of the country do blacks and whites work and live in such numbers as in the south.  Blacks are not found in significant numbers outside of the big cities of the Northeast, and out west you have to go all the way to LA to find large pockets.  But here, in my homeland, both races farm, work the factories and offices, and do the other things that make this country work.  We are still segregated in many ways, but less so every year.  

I have my prejudices, but race ain't one of them.  Everyone should join a firehouse for a day, and see how folks should get along.  

Hayneville is probably 90% black, but the courthouse still displays a monument to the Confederate soldiers from Lowndes County.

I stay on SR21 west, and continue riding this rural area of Alabama.  

I was passing through the Snow Hill community when I saw a large house with a yellow ribbon tied on a tree.  These ribbons are common all over Alabama.  We are in a war, and never let it said when the country calls, Alabamians failed to do their part.  The south has a proud military history.  The percentage of officers and soldiers coming from the south is greater then any other region.  The military is a noble career for any southern boy to aspire to.


Trees turn green, and leaf out early in an Ala. spring

The ride so far has been great therapy.  I've covered over 60 miles but can't really tell anyone what I've seen.  My thoughts have been all over the map.  It is good to take a day and just goof off.

Churches.  So many in a area with such a rural population.  I passed more then I can count in the 60 miles I rode on 21.  The buildings run the book of construction- wood, bricks, blocks, combinations and even a tent.  They were painted white and red, some were large, and others only had a congregation of a few.  All denominations were represented it seemed.

East of Furman I passed an interesting looking farm road, so turned around to check it out.  The name of the road was something like, " Old Wagon Road", not sure.

I turned on the narrow, shady road just to see where it went.  The road is bumpy and forgotten so I keep my speed down.  I followed it for a few miles when it suddenly turns single lane.  I continued on cautiously till I came to the end, finding a secluded farmhouse.  The sign on the driveway read, "Trails End."  How fitting.  The house stood among blooming flowers and trees, and a neat yard was cut around it, keeping the tree line back.  The home looked right out of one those Kincaid landscape paintings of a cottage in the mountains.

The home was a old one.  Perhaps 100 years or so.  It was made of wood, with a fresh white paint job.  I did not dare to venture any closer, at the risk of disturbing the occupants.  This is their small corner of the world.  A quiet, restful place to live.  Far from the world gone mad.  Here, life is slow.  I picture the occupants spending hot afternoons rocking on the porch, and passing cold nights under lots of blankets.  What do these folks do for entertainment?  Do they get bored of being so isolated from others?  What if a elderly couple resides here, with just each other for company?  How do the pass the days? Questions I did not get to ask, because I saw no one close by.  

  What I found at the end of the trail.   A quiet home.

The home at Trails End intrigued me, I need to return one day for a closer look. 

SR 28 merges off SR 21 and I take it to Camden to look for some lunch.  Camden is one of the bigger cities in the Black Belt.

Just outside of the city limits I found a Hardees and parked for a hamburger. 

I called my wife and let her know my whereabouts then went back to my burger.  A young black girl sweeping the dining area, sit her broom down, and sat next to me.

"you rode your motorcycle a long way today?"

"no, not really, from Prattville, just north of Montgomery"

"so ya been any place interesting on your bike?"

" yes, I have baby"

Thus started a 15 minute conversation about my travels.  I left her my card and told her to visit my web site.  She seemed genuinely impressed I had one.  

I continued on through Camden.  A true old south town.  Old churches and antebellum homes reside in the town limits.  Azaleas were blooming everywhere in all kinds of colors.

I rode SR 28 out of the city.  A few miles later I came upon Miller's Ferry.  An important lock and dam on the Alabama River.  I saw the sign pointing to a Corp of Engineer campground so followed it to check things out.  There, along the banks of the Alabama River, I found a nice, well kept campground.  A good place for a Long Rider to hang his tent.

   SR 28 crosses the Alabama River at Miller's Ferry

I dropped my pass off at the office on the way out, and the 60ish gatekeeper asked if I'd like some coffee.  "Not a coffee man but some coke might be good."  He stuck the pass back in the box and said, " Been a slow week, not many RVers come through here, just the occasional fisherman, and the fish shour ain't bittin right now."  

I looked around the office and spotted a 2002 calendar still hanging from the wall.  A radio played country music.  I swallowed a sip of coke and said, " well y'all gotta nice campground heah.  Many Long Riders ever camp for the night passing through?"  "Nah not much, we're too fur off, the interstate, but every once in a while one of y'all stops in."

I got back on SR 28 and continued my ride.  While riding along I began to think how out of shape my riding butt is.  Unlike last year, when I had a winter and spring tour, this year I have none.  That means I will leave for California in a couple of months with no long rides over 200 miles in a day.  That makes me nervous.

I went by a big ranch looking house with a long white fence, 2 young men were riding 4 wheelers along the fence.  They waved at me when I came by.

SR 28 deposits me in Catherine.  Hey! I played football here in high school! A small rural school named Catherine Academy.  I found a small post office, and went in to ask where the school is.  "Hey where y'all got the school at?"  "A mile north up the highway, but ain't nothing there, it closed about 5-6 years ago."

 Undeterred, I decided to check it out anyway, just for the heck of it.

I found the old school before I could reach 5th gear, and pulled in.

It was 1970, my sophomore high school year when I played here.  I remember the game, but not much else.  I ride the ST through the parking lot of the old run down school.  Why did it close?  The building is dilapidated and falling in.  All the windows on this side were broken.  I parked the ST around back near the football field, and walked over it.

The football field is now high in weeds and overgrown.  It was on this field many years ago, a titanic struggle took place on a hot, late summer night.  We won the game 2-0 on a second quarter safety.  I walked the end zone and found the place where the tackle was made, giving us all we would need to win the game.

Neither side threatened the others end zone the rest of the game.  I remember late in the game, they were desperately trying to make something happen, and throwing every down.  I was playing cornerback and the guy I was covering got away from me, but the pass aimed at him was just beyond his fingertips, and I gasped in relief when the ball fell harmlessly to the ground.  I walked over to that spot also, and could almost see the ball.  Funny how the mind works.  Things about that night I had long forgotten were now coming back.  How each team struggled with the other on such a hot, sultry night, that can only happen in Alabama in late summer.  In such a close game it only takes 1 play to get you beat. 

The present view from the 50 yard line.  Time eventually 
reclaims everything.

After strolling the field, I went in the nearby locker rooms.  I found the room we dressed that night.  The smell of 30 sweaty boys in a small room came flooding back.  The scent of sweat mixed in with the aroma of dirt and fresh cut grass became stuck in my nostrils. The lockers were long gone, but the benches remained.  Broken glass from bottles and windows littered the floor.  Tall weeds seeped through the cracks in the cement floor.  I pictured a long haired young man, sitting against the wall sipping ice cold Mountain Dew, and relishing the hard fought win.  His teammates jawing and slapping him, and begging him to get dressed so they could get a good seat on the bus for the trip back.  The rumor was the cheerleaders were riding back with the team, and it was everyman for himself.  I got dressed as quick as I could.

I emerged out of the darkness to find the ST in the sunshine, waiting patiently to take me home. 

I went to SR 22 North out of Catherine, heading for Selma.  The route carries me by Alabama's first capital, a small town called Cahaba.  They missed their shot at fame and the place is now regulated to some forgotten page out of a Alabama trivia book.

I can't recall a more relaxing ride then this in a long time.  The day is really moving quickly.  I think about all the places my bike and I have been, but yet I still find solace and comfort in rides close to home.  

West of Orrville, I overtook a lady riding some kind of Harley, an American flag flying from the rear.

I arrived in Selma in the mid afternoon.  Selma is rich in Civil Rights history, although I've been here thousands of times, I've never taken the time to really visit.  

Knowing my way around the city, I maneuvered through the business district and parked outside the local newspaper.  I found myself near the famous Edmund Petus Bridge.  This is where civil right marchers gathered for the protest march to Montgomery.  Unfortunately, they were confronted by state troopers on the east side of the bridge and a violent confrontation took place.  A dark day in Alabama history.

       The famous Edmund Petus Bridge of Selma.

I read the markers and got a closer look at this day in history.

By now school was out, and it was time to head back to Prattville.  I knew a few shortcuts to SR 14, and was able to go around the high school and its associated traffic. 

SR 14 is always a pleasant ride, and on this day it held true to character.  I rode peacefully the last 40 miles home.  Trees were green, and the grass green and high along the roadway.  Blooming dogwoods were sprinkled in the woods.  The weather had been perfect all day, and the ride was drawing to a close. 

I entered Prattville and made my way to my neighborhood.  I pulled in my garage at 4:30pm after covering 190 miles, ending one of the best rides in a long time.