Back to Georgia
2 June 2015
Master Map
Wishing I could find a bonnet of the sort affected by washerwomen of Huck Finn’s time, I gathered up an armful of dirty Aussie kit and went to do battle with the enormous, industrial strength washing machine at the Iron Horse. While it worked its magic, I retreated to the cabin and read the forum or a book or something until it was time to transfer the load to the even more enormous drier. It reminded me of living in London many years ago when it was said one of the homeless chaps who wandered the streets near my flat slept in the drier at the laundromat. He would at least have been warm in the London winter.
At breakfast the kind woman kept me properly infused with tea. On the basis of my experience in Georgia, Tennessee and North Carolina, I have to conclude Americans (other than the Ferret of course) don’t get the whole tea thing. The conversation often went something like:
“May I have a cup of tea, please?”
“It’s over there,” pointing politely.
“Er, no, I’d like hot tea, please.”
“You want heart tea?”
“Er, not heart tea, hot tea.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, heart tea.”
“Oh, right, I see. Yes please. Hot tea. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome.” Accompanied by a slightly perplexed look as if foreigners were a sheep short in the top paddock.
Ferret had, in an act of great generosity, left me with a sufficient supply of tea bags to get me around the world at least a couple of times and they were to come in handy.
We tarried over breakfast as we needed to hang about until 0930 for WOW Motorcycles to open. The decision made the previous evening was that Pterodactyl would call EagleRider (based in the WOW dealer in Marietta) about the sad state of his rear tyre.
He did so and has already told the story with his usual wit here:
Turning up at a CB rally with an FJR is like turning up at a party with, well.... errrr .... ahhh .... ummm. Methinks that it is best left to your own imagination. You will note that in the group photos at the rally the FJR, and Cormanus’ ST, were quietly pushed aside. Bit like the mad aunts at a family gathering. However that is not the point. On taking delivery of the FJR at Eaglerider Marietta I did a walk around with the store manager. One of the things I did note was the condition of the tyres (tires?). Well, they were good, looked on the right side of half-life with good grooving all the way to the centre (center?). Please note that I am endeavouring to become familiar with the North American spelling conventions, just so we are all on the same page, so to speak.
A day later, under the guidance of ride4now, I was gradually getting the “wrong side of the road” under control and by the time we had wended our way up to Neels Gap I had a reasonable appreciation of the FJR. Not as nimble as a VFR750, or quite as torquey as the CB, but agile enough and with more than adequate power. Keep the revs up and the power coming on when established in the corners and it was a lot of fun.
So three days later I had had a lot of fun. Just under a 1000 miles added to the FJR. On the Sunday, Cormanus and I followed SanPete up the Blue Ridge Parkway. I was feeling a little slow. My 70 year old brain and body, despite a lifetime of almost puritanically healthy living and total devotion to asceticism, was becoming a little weary. But that was not my main concern. I felt, when nicely established in those wonderful BRP sweepers, that if I tightened up the line with any vigour the back end seemed to slide a little. Nothing serious but just more than necessary.
After saying goodbye to SanPete we made our way back to Stechoah. At one stage we encountered some heavy rain. A passing thunder storm. Cormanus was leading and for one reason or another came to a halt, a red light maybe. I applied brakes and noted that deceleration was not quite as effective as expected and that the ABS was operating. My line was to his left side so I wasn’t going to rear end him but I did stop about a half wheel length alongside him. This was not real good. Unnerving in fact.
On reaching the Iron Horse I took a shufti at the rear tyre and guess what?
After another couple of hundred miles on Monday, including the Dragon, the rear end was becoming quite active. On Tuesday we checked out of the Iron Horse and I had the rear changed at Wheelers in Robinsville when it looked like this:
As an aside this tyre is a ContiMotion. Continental make some beaut products however the ContiMotion is described, by Continental, as a “Sport Touring radial for the price conscious rider”. Get what you pay for I guess.
Both Eddie at Eaglerider and Ken Wheeler couldn’t do enough to help. They were fantastic. I rolled into Wheelers and around thirty minutes later I saw this, a Bridgestone Battlax.
I scrubbed the Battlax in on 129 south out of Robinsville. At our first stop Cormanus commented, “Got your dancing shoes on again?” Yes, I had.
I’ll just add that Eddie at WOW/EagleRider is the man. It took a quick phone call, an emailed copy of a photo of the tyre and it was replaced with no fuss at all.
Eventually, with clean gear, a slight feeling of sadness, a US129 badge for me and a helmet decal of the Dragon for Pterodactyl, we left the Iron Horse Motorcycle Lodge for the final time and found our way to Ken Wheeler’s excellent motorcycle emporium.
Ken’s a great bloke and had the FJR up on the hoist with the back wheel off in a matter of moments making me realise what a wonderful thing a single swinging arm is. He quickly detected we were not locals and confessed he wasn’t either, telling how long it takes in this part of the world for an out of stater to be regarded with anything but suspicion. I was, I confess, worried about him as, every time he did something even slightly strenuous, he had to pause to make a technical adjustment to his hernia. It looked damned uncomfortable to me, but he did it with great aplomb and good humour.
It was after 1200 before we were back on our way through Robbinsville, from where we followed 28 south to Franklin, riding the previous afternoon’s route the other way. Pterodactyl was a new man: whipping into the corners and setting a cracking pace. It seemed an even better road on the new day.
We stopped at an information centre/coffee shop in Franklin where an octogenarian woman who looked fitter than either of us provided an OK cappuccino and a muffin. She was also very kind about suggesting some interesting routes south. There was a remarkable serendipity about the way they aligned with the plan we’d concocted based on the advice of our CB1100 colleagues.
We set off into a cloudy afternoon promising showers and made our way south on 28/64 to Highlands and then to Pine Mountain. It was immediately obvious why the route, running alongside the Cullasaja River had been recommended to us. It was not only a great ride but also beautiful with its steep mountains and pretty river. We stopped twice to admire waterfalls and take photographs.
Of course, we planned to do the famous Bridal Veil Falls photo shoot, but caught sight of them only out of the corner of our eyes and decided not to stop. It was a lovely road and we enjoyed it until it was time to turn off onto the pretty enough Warwoman Rd which took us to Clayton where we joined 2 and ran north to Hiawassee where we checked ourselves into the Lake Chatuge Lodge.
The young lady at reception told us the Lodge was in a dry county and they couldn’t sell alcohol. Luckily we had spied an Ingles on the way through town and rode back down there and discovered, slightly to my amazement, that they sold beer which we drank companionably on the deck outside our room while musing over the day’s ride and pondering the morrow. While we hadn’t covered a great distance, it had been a pleasing ride and Pterodactyl was again really enjoying the FJR.
As we drank our beer, I wondered again about the whole dry county thing. It’s inconvenient for an old soak like me. At the same time, I acknowledge it’s none of my business and if people want dry counties, good for them. What I don’t get is why the Lodge was not allowed to sell alcohol but we could buy it at the supermarket, we saw a good many signs for a place selling wine and we could also buy it at the Chophouse of Hiawassee where we dined. I came to the conclusion it must have been a selectively dry county.
We wandered 150 metres or so down the hill to the Chophouse of Hiawassee where (as noted) we could have a drink and we both decided on the recommended beef rib and a glass or two of red wine. The rib was excellent; one of the better meals I had in the US. I’m glad I didn’t ask for a rare one! In a perverse kind of way I also enjoyed the service. The young waiter was polite and attentive but completely disengaged while delivering his prepared patter at such a mighty pace it was hard to understand him.
