The Mississippi Boy in me asked to revisit this beautiful stretch of roadway on my Bonneville. I have fond memories of barreling down the lush roadways at a prudent 50 mph in my '71 Z28 with Metallica blasting out of the Kicker box - but I needed to have the visceral experience of riding on my bike.
The Etowah Indian Mound Run
Gorgeous ride over to Cartersville. With Mississippi Aaron as Navigator, we simply could not go wrong or take an errant turn. Crisp and bright sunny day pleads for a motorcycle run. Walking along the Etowah River and viewing the land from the glorious Etowah Indian perspective forces one to be happy living in the moment. We marveled at the practical ingenuity and plain ole goodness of the Etowah. So painful to even begin to imagine the sickening control and exploitation forced upon the true stewards of our lands we call the South. To think of the Etowah families fishing in the river way with their brilliant traps, hand-carving canoes their loved ones would jump into with enthusiasm, and just being happy for some beautiful weather makes the tragedy befalling them even more unspeakable by the horrifying contrast of their future plight. (Glad we rode the bikes, I need some goddamn levity right now...) In addition to developing a profound appreciation for the Etowah, we came up with the following Natural Laws of the universe:
1) There is no way to get lost on a motorcycle. Even riding past a dumpster surrounded by pigeons and wayward, crusty gutter punks in a questionable neighborhood becomes more picturesque and interesting on a bike. You cannot reach for your phone (we scoff at mobile stands because it ruins the bike's aesthetics) so, you must use your own wits and sense of direction. This is called having fun exploring and exercising your curious sense of adventure. I cannot count the times we've come across a picturesque creek, a decrepit old water tower, or a refreshingly winding road in our own back yards due to being lost. Please feel free to insert any profound philosophical quotation at this moment about wanderers, rogues, and hobbits or tired cliché proudly displayed on your desk to keep you from jumping off the 21st floor. We all need something to cling to - even ridiculous, vacuous words!
2) When planning a route, always go with a road that ends in "Mill". With old 19th-century mills located on waterways (for power) and amongst forests (for raw materials), it's still a pretty reasonable bet any Southern Road with Mill bestowed upon it will be a bit winding, a touch off the beaten path, and offering loads of scenery. Now, Dear Readers will come up with numerous counterfactual examples refuting Natural Law #2...but we're nonplussed. This works well in the South, and we'll keep riding this truism until it breaks or gets us beaten up by a nefarious lost tribe of Appalachians.
3) Motorcycles are the best investment you can ever make. Simmer down, you accountant and finance-types, I'm not talking about resale value on a depreciating asset. I'm talking about the intrinsic value of joy in being free, the sensation of feeling the physical world fly by (proprioception), and conversing (perhaps dreaming) with your friends in staccato, shouted sentences at stop lights over rumbling, warm engines. This experiential value - the cash value in life William James spoke so fondly of - is one of life's enrichments (even though they are so dangerous or maybe even because they are so dangerous...) provides a return on investment that cannot be contained in a financial model or by a Kelly Blue Book. Motorcycles create fun days and comradery even in the most depressing apocalyptic weather or dour, blackened negative cash flow days.
The Suches Run
Mortality before our very eyes. It was a dark and stormy night…just messin’ with you…it was a beautiful, crisp, verdant morning rolling up from Atlanta to Dahlonega on Emma (Thruxton R). Alone, only mildly hungover, and ebullient.
Entering Dahlonega, I made the respectable decision to stop for gas. The place was filled with motorcycle riders. Brothers and sisters all decked out in safety finery astride worldly machines. Sharing the pump on the other side was a young couple on a Ducati - also looking forward to a beautiful riding day. We exchanged pleasantries, admired each other’s bike, and maybe even High Fived in our giddiness. My New Friend’s lovely girlfriend riding on the back also pleasantly chimed in our small talk about the run-yet-to-be. New Friend asked me where I was headed, I mentioned Suches area, and he said that’s where they were headed, too. “Want to follow us? Yes, I do”. So, we headed out from the gas station.
From the outset, New Friend was displaying all the riding patterns of a Good Mood - starting off at a sprint, weaving to and fro in smooth semi-circles, and going pretty damn fast for my taste. (I fancy myself as Devil-May-Care but that’s just not the case.) My bike could easily keep up, but my riding style could not. New Friend kept on accelerating as we entered the windy, mountain roads and lost me. I didn’t want them to think I peeled off without waving, but I was also not going to ride faster than my skill level. Decided to just catch up with him when I could see him. Thought to myself: there’s bound to be an old dump truck or a club of Fast & The Furious tuner cars careening down the mountain that will slow them up. Nowhere in sight for several bends and downhill banks. Then, I notice a young couple in a red Japanese convertible, stopped in the facing lane, and waving wildly. Looks like they’re trying to get my attention; so, I slow. They point to the side of the road. It’s New Friend’s lovely girlfriend laying on her back on the dirt shoulder with New Friend leaning over her, pants bloody and torn to shreds, and visibly shaken. Bike is nowhere to be found. I park my bike next to them as a barrier of sorts while several other motorcyclists stop to help any way they can. New Friend says, “Thanks for stopping, Man. I think my pegs might have hit the road and spun us out.” His lovely girlfriend is very shaken, obviously in pain, but not seriously injured. Dawson County police and medics were on the scene in minutes, Thank Goodness. The incredible Ducati I admired so just fifteen minutes ago was mangled and laying at the bottom of a 30-foot gulley off the road. Thank-All-Various-Gods: New Friend and his Lady were decked out, head-to-toe, in full-face helmets, jackets, and pants. Both were hurt but it could’ve been so much worse. As the industrious medics carefully loaded New Friend’s Lady into the ambulance, he said, “Thanks again for stopping” and jumped into the ambulance - cut up, shaken, and dejected.
Standing by my Thruxton for a minute or two to catch my breath, I mumbled “could’ve easily been me”, fired the Thruxton up, and rode off. I felt guilty about not asking for a contact number to check on them (New Friend was obviously more-than-a-little preoccupied). I felt guilty about being able to carry out the beautiful ride New Friend and I chatted about (like 80s teenagers tailgating with a case of Milwaukee’s Best at a Ratt concert) at a Dahlonega Exxon. I felt guilty arriving home safe and sound - eating a pizza and drinking a few - instead of waiting around for a blessed Doctor to tell me how my girlfriend is doing. Guilty, yes, but not enough to stop me.
The Unicorn Run
Magic, magic, magic. This is a ride that has never materialized…but that doesn’t mean it never will. It’s the quest one has in mind when slapping down thousands for an iron horse. It’s part of the euphoria and out-n-out love a motorcyclist feels for the non-sentient object Bruce rightfully croons about as “suicide machines”. It’s part of the reason ‘epic’ was popularized as a word and a direct contributor to that word’s wincing overuse and misappropriation. It’s a confluence of crisp air, honeysuckle scents, growling exhaust pops, and open, seemingly interminable roads. It’s what some people call The Zone but what Zhuang Zhou might consider as living in the greater flow of life as you are. This ride is always on the cusp of becoming, just around the bend, after the next roadside stop, when we awake in the morrow, once we add the seat we’ve been eyeing, when that beloved person finally kicks a leg over, wraps around us on the back and lays a sultry cheek on our shoulder as we experience the intoxication of motion together.
