Road Kill Diaries

Yeah, I know. The whole idea of riding is to just head out in one direction or another with no particular place to go (with apologies to Chuck Berry).

But sometimes I like to know where I'm going and reading a map while riding is high on the list of "don't try this on a bike," so I took the plunge recently and added the Garmin Zumo 550 GPS unit to my '08 1200 Low.

The Zumo is designed for motorcycles (they also make the Road Tech unit for Harley-Davidson). It features a bright screen, soft controls that work well with gloves and both a sturdy handlebar mount for the bike and a windshield mount for your car.  You can also add XM radio, weather and traffic alerts with an optional antenna.

 With the Zumo I can route my cell phone to my Scalia Rider wireless headset via Bluetooth and answer calls while riding. The call, complete with caller ID, comes up on the screen of the Zumo and I touch one button to answer. I can also answer the phone's directory for one-touch dailing although I prefer to be stopped to do that.

I added the XM radio antenna but can't listen to XM via Bluetooth. I solved the problem by using the ear buds from my I-Phone and plugging them directly into the Zumo. The sound is extremely clear inside my 3/4 helmet at highway speeds.

Motorcycle riders often swap stories about stupid stunts pulled by drivers of "cagers" (cars), ranging from pulling out in front of oncoming traffic without looking to coming around a curve in the wrong lane to venturing into a lane occupied by a motorcycle and then acting pissed when you blast them with a horn.

Bike riders can be stupid too. A recent post about adding performance to my Sportster 1200 Low with Screaming Eagle upgrades brought a rash of commentary from street racers who claim they have "put down" bikes like mine in races from stoplight to stoplight or in speed chases on the open road.

I have nothing against racing -- on the race track. I've competed in SCCA racing, winning a national class championship. I've driven ARCA stock cars at 190 plus at Daytona and competed in both the 24 Hours of Daytona and the 12 Hours of Sebring.

But I don't race on the streets. Anyone who does is, in my opinion, an idiot. I've lost count of the times that I've been cruising the Blue Ridge Parkway at the posted speed limit of 45 miles per hour and had a Ninja or similar bike blast by me in a no-passing zone.  The other day, I was running at 55 miles per hour on U.S. 221 near Bent Mountain the other day when a nutcase on a BMW bike flew by running at least 90.

I served as chief steward of the Drivers' Education Program for the Potomac Region Porsche Club for a number of years and oversaw the drivers who honed their high-speed driving skills at Summit Point Raceway in West Virginia. On the way back from the track one Sunday afternoon, I saw one of our club members driving at high speed and in a reckless manner on the Dulles Toll Road in Northern Virginia. I picked up my cell phone and called the State Police. They nailed him for running 115 miles per hour on Interstate 66 a few minutes later. He lost his license. He deserved to. Anyone who drives like a manac on a public road puts not only themselves but others at risk.

I'm not impressed by speed demons who brag about running 100 mph plus on the Blue Ridge Parkway or even an empty Interstate at 4 in the morning. Stupidity is not limited to those who driver cagers.

I've always been a power junkie when it came to motorized transportation: A souped-up '57 Ford in high school, a Shelby Mustang and then a hopped up Torino before marriage. For a while it was Porsches and too many performance enhancements to drain my bank account.

So it was just a matter of time before the '08 XL 1200L went into the shop for some, shall we say, modifications: More compression, stiffer valve springs, a heavy breather, Screaming Eagle mufflers and new software for the electronic fuel injection.

Took my first ride on the "enhanced" Sporty recently and all I can say is "wow!"  The Sportster is already a quick bike. Now it's a lot quicker.

What's the old axiom about boys and toys?

Rode down to Roanoke on a recent Sunday for breakfast with friends and, hopefully, a nice ride somewhere.  But only three rode their bikes and one was headed South for a trip to Spartanburg.

So after breakfast, I headed over the the Valley View area to pick up a new power supply for one of my computers and then contemplated the rest of the day.

I rode around Roanoke for a while, visiting a couple of haunts from my time in the city in the 60s, then headed out Brandon Road towards Salem, veering right on Route 311 towards Catawba.

Rode through Catawba and over the mountain to New Castle. The weather continued to warm so I went over Topps Mountain to Paint Bank, stopping at the General Store for some coffee. Struck up a conversation with a couple who recently moved from New England to Troutville. They planned to head towards Blacksburg on Route 18.  I opted to stay on 311 and head over another mountain, this time to Crows, Virginia. With an empty road beckoning, traversed one more mountain to White Sulpher Springs, West Virginia.

After stretching my legs, I headed East on U.S. 60 to Covington and on to Clifton Forge, veering off on U.S. 220 to follow the river towards Fincastle.  My reserve light kicked off just short of Fincastle but I have at least 100 miles left when it lights up so I turned on U.S. 11 at Troutville and headed through Cloverdale and Hollins and into Roanoke. Picked up I-581 at Hershberger Road and headed south, staying on 220.  Stopped for gas at an Exxon Station where 220 turns from a limited access highway into just another four-lane road and looked across the road at the I-Hop on top of the hill. That's where we had breakfast earlier in the day. I had ridden 189 miles since breakfast.

With a full tank of 93-octane premium, I headed south on 220 to the Blue Ridge Parkway. As I headed up Bent Mountain, I realized it had crossed a half-dozen mountains during a day's ride.  I turned off on Franklin Pike, then hit Poor Farm Road and Sandy Flats Road for the short ride home. When I checked the trip odometer in the garage, it read 287 miles since leaving the house 11 hours earlier.

No wonder my butt was sore.

Depending on how you interpret it, last weekend was (1) blind luck, (2) someone watching over me or (3) a warning that my luck is running out.

It began Saturday when I followed another biker out of the driveway of Roanoke Valley Harley-Davidson en route to a rally and fundraiser for the American Cancer Society at a nearby Texas Steakhouse. The biker ahead of me upshifted and both of his mufflers dropped off his Dyna. The pipes cascaded back towards me on Peters Creek Road. I swerved left and missed the tumbling mufflers.

The single bolt that held the mufflers in place came loose and allowed the pipes to drop off.  While we examined his bike for any damage, at least a dozen bikers came by but not one stopped to see if we needed any help. Times have changed on the road.

Sunday morning. 8:30 a.m.  I headed down Bent Mountain on U.S. 221, on my way to a breakfast in Roanoke. As I straightened the bike out between curves, a young deer darted out of the bushes and sprinted across the road, right in front my Sportster. With no time to brake or swerve, I hit the deer's right hindquarter with the front fire of the bike. The deer fell to the pavement, its right rear leg broken. The bike wobbled but I regained control and stopped just in time to see the deer run off on three legs, dragging its broken leg.

Surprisingly, the impact at about 45 miles per hour did not damage the Harley. I found deer fur in the treads of the front tire but nothing on the bike was bent or damaged.  I proceeded on to Roanoke and put a couple of hundred miles on the bike in an afternoon ride.

I was lucky to hit a deer with a motorcycle and walk away from the incident. I can't attribute the escape to any skill on my part, just blind luck...and possibly the intervention of a higher power.

Thanks.

I like riding in the fading light of a cool autumn day, especially on the Blue Ridge Parkway.  The brisk air chills your face and an air-cooled V-Twin responds well to the cool, dense air.

Some call the approach of winter the end of the riding season. Not me. I'll ride as long as there isn't snow or ice on the road. Riding brings one closer to nature and the chill of fall and winter are part of that nature.

I'll let the wimps and wannabes hook up their trickle chargers and put their bikes away for the winter. Just means more room on the road for serious riders.

Cool, crisp night air stung my face as I left the parking lot of Roanoke Valley Harley Davidson Tuesday night after the regular monthly meeting of the local Harley Owners Group (HOG).  Moderate traffic greeted me on Peters Creek Road as I headed towards Salem and Virginia Rte. 419 for the jog over to U.S. 221 and the ride home.

Some riders avoid night time, especially in Southwestern Virginia where a heavy deer population but I enjoy riding after dark. Traffic on 221 runs lighter and the cool, crisp air of approaching fall slaps me awake as I approach the winding road up Bent Mountain.

The car that had closed on the rear fell back as I leaned the Sportster into the turns up the mountain.  The ultra-bright driving lights on the Harley slice into the night as I snap the bike right and left through the twisties.

The last tight turn at the top of the mountain often brings a scraping sound as the lower exhaust pipe finds the pavement. Yep, there it is. I straighten out the bike and shitt up to 4th and 5th for the final run up the hill and the flat straightaway.

Some traffic coming north on 221 but I have the road mostly to myself as the 1200 V-Twin easily handles the turns and hills between Bent Mountain and Poor Farm Road, where I turn for the final mile-and-a-half to the house.

I pull into the garage refeshed by the cool air and smiling from yet another fun ride.

Life is good.