With the second half of our trip about to start, I think we were all a bit anxious; thus we were up before the dawn, intent on working our way back to the west. Kentucky and Mammoth Cave were calling. It was a bit nippy that morning. 46 degrees Fahrenheit according to the thermometer on the Tiger. Thermals, jacket liners, electric vests, and heavy gloves were dragged out of the hard bags. The night before, one of the ladies at Station's Inn had told us about a great place for breakfast just up the Parkway. We arrived a bit before Bluff's Coffee Shop opened, standing and shivering in the cold as the smell of fresh coffee and biscuits grew ever stronger, stirred by the ghostly movements of warm employees behind the frosted glass. Just before that, however, we'd stopped down the road at a lovely scenic overlook. With the bikes shut down, everything was peaceful and quiet, and we stood -- three friends without the need to break that serene silence with inane chatter -- and watched the rising sun crack the horizon in a brilliant seam of reds and oranges that crept across the purple canvas of night like water color paint bleeding into parchment. A slim thumbnail of a moon coaxed the sun upward. Night critters sang a song that could only be interpreted as encouragement. We put our arms around each other, thankful for the shared moment, for the amazing show that simply never grows old: the dawn of a new day. Thankful for each other. For the opportunity to see and experience the road and its wonders. Yes, thankful even for the cold, for the shivers niggling our spines, for the brisk bite of the mountain air in our lungs.

Breakfast at Bluff's was great. Greg spotted a couple articles and photos on the wall showing two ladies who had been waitressing at Bluff's for over 50 years each. When he asked if they were still working there, he was assured that they were, but, sadly, they worked afternoons. It would have been interesting to sit and talk to them, to hear a bit about how they had watched the Blue Ridge Parkway develop over the years, to hear some of the travelers' stories they might tell.

After breakfast, the road beckoned. We saw more turkeys and deer. We spotted an alpaca farm with a sign claiming there was a store. The BlueAnt Interphones proved beneficial once again as I was able to let Elaine and Gregger the Speedy, Stop-fer-Nuthin' Alien know that I wanted to stop. Neither of them had ever heard of alpacas, so I had to explain about the llama-like critters from Peru, how they're sheered like sheep and their wool is as soft as a cloud. You can buy alpaca teddy bears, socks, sweaters, all manner of things, each as soft and cuddly and warm as when the alpaca was originally wearing it. Unfortunately, the farm and store (wherever it was -- I really didn't see anything that looked like a store) were closed. The gate was locked. All we were able to do was hang on the fence and try to coax the alpacas over for some petting. The alpacas weren't having any of it, though. They just milled around, nibbling grass and minding their alpaca business. I got some photos, kept looking wistfully at the house in hope that someone would notice us out there and come outside to chat, then eventually we were on the road again.


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

The Parkway was beautiful and I could have ridden it forever, but in Roanoke, we grabbed the interstate to put some miles behind us. Greg and Elaine wanted me to experience Lexington's quaint college-town atmosphere and 1800's architecture. The plan was to be there for lunch, so we needed to let the motorcycles do their road-gobbling trick. We parked on the main drag downtown amongst all the shops and artsy restaurants. Elaine asked a local woman for a lunch recommendation and we wound up at an Italian place. One look inside and I knew I was out of my element. It was much too high brow for culture-deficient ol' bahwolf with his bug-splattered jacket and nappy helmet hair. Elaine assured me it would be fine and made me sit down. It probably didn't help, though, when she asked the waiter if we could plug our motorcycle helmets into a wall outlet for charging.

The items on the menu were appropriately overpriced .... and all in Italian. I couldn't make sense of most of it. No matter, I always order lasagna in Italian restaurants. When the waiter came to take our order, I told him that's what I wanted. "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't serve lasagna." WTF?!?! What kinda Eye-talian joint doesn't serve lasagna?!?! It's like the freakin' national food or something, ain't it? I wasn't that hungry anyway. Neither was Greg. (Elaine makes us eat so damn much on these trips that we both gain weight and have to fast for a month afterward!) We decided we would split an order of roasted lamb chops. The waiter gave us a little sneer as if he believed we'd wandered in not knowing the prices and were compensating by sharing our dinner. He looked over at Elaine, probably expecting her to ask for a spare plate so that she could share the lamb chops, too. Elaine ordered grilled salmon in wine sauce with tomatoes, capers, and other fancy stuff ... probably a half dozen appetizers and side dishes to boot (the woman is simply ravenous), more than making up for us guys' wimpy order.

While waiting on our food, we got to cutting up -- as we are usually wont to do -- mostly about how inappropriate it was for us motorcycle trash Oklahoma-Texas redneck types to be dining in such an establishment. This quickly segued into whether Greg and I could get Elaine laughing so hard that she'd wet her pants. Greg was coaching her on minding her manners and not making pig noises while she ate. No belching or farting. That sort of stuff. I think the line that pushed her over the edge was when I said, "Greg and I are treading water in this place, Elaine, but you are drowning." That was it, she made a run for the bathroom.

The food was delicious, but we didn't linger. For once, we didn't have to ask for our check. The waiter was pretty quick to bring it out and see us on our way.

We walked down the street to an ice cream shop for dessert. The Alien wanted to check his stocks, so he asked directions to the library, and away he went, promising to meet us back at the bikes in an hour. Elaine and I walked around town, scoping out all the shops. One of the shops had a bird cage packed with little finches. I told Elaine how my grandmother always had finches around for their beautiful songs.

Eventually, we were back on the road, the Alien all excited and distracted by his stock portfolio and doing a poor job of navigating. We got turned around a time or two, but saw some lovely West Virginia countryside. Poverty was obvious, though. In little towns like Sophie, Slabfork, Maben, Mullins, Pineville, Brenon, Justice, Gilbert, Hampden, Pie, Varney, and Taylorville, the economy appeared in disarray. (Probably George Dubya's fault, eh?) The coal business looked to be the only happening gig. Everywhere we looked were reminders that this was coal country.

Despite the sad state of economic affairs, nearly every home was decorated for the fall season with pumpkins and straw bails and spooky Halloween displays. Most of the arrangements were quite elaborate. I was amazed by the near 100% participation everywhere we went. Oklahoma certainly doesn't get this excited about Fall. If I was still writing horror, I'd use all of this in a story about Fall Harvest, ancient gods, and bloody Children of the Corn-esque sacrifices. Who better to offer up than some passing strangers on motorcycles? Nobody's probably miss them at all, and they'd certainly never be found after being tilled into the fields. How splendidly gruesome is that?

As night fell, we got caught in our first serious rain. The back roads were slick and treacherous, and by the time we stopped to don rain gear, I was pretty cold and wet because the Tiger provides virtually no wind protection. I put my rain gear on over wet clothes, plugged in my electric vest, and cranked up the heat to combat the shivers. We were only 35 miles from Williamson, where we planned to spend the night, but that 35 miles took us more than an hour due to the twisty roads and the elements. At one point, we climbed up out of a valley on one of the most twisty, steep, and tricky stretches of road I've ever seen, reminding me very much of that super tight series of switchbacks on Hwy 123 around Mount Judea in Arkansas. The Tiger never missed a step, though (which is true for the entire trip).

When we eventually arrived in Williamson, it proved to be one of the most disconcerting towns I've ever seen, everything scattered about with no rhyme or reason: streets, businesses, homes, all jumbled together in the dark as if (in Elaine's words) "everything had been shaken in a bucket and then dumped out to form the town. Where things land is where they stay and you just kinda pave some streets in between." Williamson seemed to have something against streetlights. As we slipped through town, I couldn't help but feel we were in a bad neighborhood, but this was apparently the condition throughout the town. On several street corners, there were unsavory, unemployed types milling about in groups of three or four. A time or two it seemed as if one of them would shout something at us as we rode by, but that might have been my overactive imagination. I was not feeling particularly comfortable.

We eventually found a room at a hotel I've already forgotten, had dinner at a Taco Bell where they refused to get our order correct after multiple attempts, and then it was lights out. I couldn't see the Tiger from the window and worried about it all night. I imagined it being carted off, its engine stripped from the chassis and forced into a life of servitude as part of some infernal, smoke-belching machine deep in a coal mine.