The next morning, we were packing to leave our comfy, happy l'il cabin in the mountains (I cannot recommend that place enough!), planning to head for the Biltmore Estate, when cabin owner Carl Lutz drove up to collect the trash. He spotted the Tiger (a conversation starter if ever there was one) and next thing I knew we three -- Carl, Greg, and I -- were embroiled in an hour-long-plus conversation that spanned nearly every topic you could imagine plucking out of a hat. Turned out, Carl knew quite a bit about motorcycles, old Triumphs in particular, but Carl actually seemed to know an awful lot about damn near everything. Quite the fascinating fellow, the sort to whom you can lose hours and hours just listening. Before we knew it, our early start had been tossed out the window, our breakfast was getting cold, and the Alien had so much information to relay back to the home world that I thought his head would surely burst trying to queue it all up for transmission.

After breakfast, Carl invited us up to his house to meet his wife Linde and see her miniature horses. Now you folks know me: I never pass up the opportunity to get up-close-and-personal with critters. That morning, there was a furrier (I think that's the correct terminology) working on the horses' hooves, so we got to watch him in action. Fascinating stuff. Definitely a lost art.

"Pssst ... Hey, lady ... you know I'm hung like a ... well, like a miniature horse. Heh heh."


(Click for larger image)	(Click for larger image)

Saw this hairy little fella crawling on the fence while visiting with the horses and couldn't resist taking his photo.

The horses were absolute sweethearts. While Elaine and I played with them, Gregger got into another talk-a-thon with Carl, but eventually we pried the two of them apart so that we could hit the road for the Biltmore Estate, which Elaine said she had wanted to visit for at least 12 years. You can learn all you want about the place by visiting www.biltmore.com, but essentially it was built in the 1800's by George W. Vanderbilt. It remains the largest privately owned residence in the United States. There are all sorts of fancy fixings, it was used in the movie Richey Rich, there are secret passages, and ... blah, blah, blah. Personally, I had zero interest in the place, but Elaine wanted to see it, and I was more than willing to spend all day being bored to tears if it made her happy. And, hey, she was paying our way through the gates. Get this: the cheap tickets are $45!

It was nearly lunch time by the time we arrived. Traffic was awful and the place was packed. Without further ado and much elaboration by yours truly (cause -- yawn -- I done told you I could care less about this place), here are some pics to give you a feel for it. Unfortunately, you're not allowed to take photos inside...


Some of the fancy architectural details (click either for a larger image).


Guardians (click either for a larger image).

Though Greg and I encouraged Elaine to take her time, spend all day inside looking around if that's what made her happy, she was conscious of the fact that neither of us boys were the least bit interested. Also, the place was packed wall-to-wall with people (at a minimum of $45 a head, Greg and I figured the estate must have been paid for about a million times over by now), most of them milling around listening to headphone setups they'd rented which told them about the history of the place, who had visited and done this-n-that over the years in every room. (::big yawn::) There were long lines to move from one room to another or to the various floors in the house. There was no air conditioning and it was getting hot with so many humans sweating and farting and recycling the available oxygen. It didn't take long at all before even Elaine was ready to mosey on down the road. I felt guilty because she'd paid $135 for the three of us to spend about an hour inside. Greg and I both tried to convince her to enjoy herself and spend more time there, that we were just fine thank you, but she was ready to go. So we went. Adios, Biltmore.

As we were leaving, Greg stopped a woman who worked at the place and quizzed her for some details. She said the Biltmore sucks in 2,500 to 3,000 tourists on a SLOW day. On a busy day, that number jumps to 5 or 6 thousand! They're open 364 days a year. You do the math. Personally, I think I'm gonna take out a loan, build me a grand multi-million dollar estate, and run tours of the place for a few years until it's all paid for ... then I can move in and live happily ever after. There will, of course, be plenty of garage space for motorcycles.

As we were leaving, I whipped the Tiger into the no-parking area out front, hopped off, and parked for a quick photo op.

After feeding Elaine lunch, we hit the Blue Ridge Parkway for a much more delightful (and inexpensive) source of entertainment: leaning our motos through the twisties. The trees pressed in close all around us, alive with fall colors, all golden and red in the sunlight. Following Greg and Elaine on their Wing, I watched as the leaves stirred from the pavement beneath them, sweeping up and around the Tiger and me, moving as if in slow motion, totally discordant to the speed of the bikes, like some sort of trick photography or a rift in time -- the leaves moving in one dimension, the bikes in another. Deer and turkeys watched us from the roadside. We were hoping for bear, but saw none. The smell of the forest penetrated my helmet visor, Mother Nature's perfume. The bikes slipped through the sun's chiaroscuro bands, light and shadow dancing with us as we leaned into the curves. It was a divine ride. Once again, I felt the inner peace that comes with this simple thing that I've come to love so much: traveling on a motorcycle. Nothing before has ever brought such passion and perfection to my life, such a singular moment of grace. The Muse of Motion was singing in every fiber of my being.

(Click for larger image.)

By seven that evening, the sun was setting and we were ready to call it a day. We took a Parkway exit at random, and Serendipity stepped in to take care of us, offering up the Station's Inn Motorcycle Resort. We couldn't have planned it better. We had pizza, hot wings, and beer at their restaurant. In their convenience store, Greg bought a trunk monkey for his Wing -- a trunk monkey with illusions of being a super hero from the look of its costume. If you ... uh .... spanked the monkey, it would make, well, monkey sounds. The monkey and Pierre became quick friends.

As the sun took its curtain calls, we settled on the bench outside our room with a bottle of wine. (The hotel staff was even nice enough to loan us some beautiful wine glasses, so we didn't have to use plastic cups.) What a great day.