The Normal Force

I’ve spent many months imagining my trip to Maggie Valley.

I’d been there before.

It’s a staggeringly beautiful place – Mother Nature is omnipresent in both her beauty, and her capacity for random bouts of violent indifference to the preferences of Man.   

The last time I went to Maggie I was just a tourist, though.

This time I had a story that I needed to tell.

The Writing Business had wrapped – it had gone better than I ever could have hoped.

I had a notebook filled with the bones of that story, and a digital Nikon with a memory chip filled with pictures sitting in my top case.  

I can be excused for having one of those ‘rare for me’ James Brown moments – I felt good. I knew that I would now.

Now there was just to get back home.

And home was up the Blue Ridge Parkway.

I really love it when the needs of business and pleasure magically align.

Mother Nature, though, was in Violent Indifference mode – when I got ready to leave my weather app was telling me it was 28 degrees out. I layered up with a new thermal top, turtleneck, heavy fleece and the Roadcrafter, and got my gear – clothes, soft cooler with food, growler full of drinking water —  stashed back in the cases and seatbag.  I finished gearing up, swung a leg over, addressed a very small petition to The Lord with prayer.

The LT has not been a very enthusiastic starter, of late, in the coldest of cold weather. I do use a heavier grade of multi-grade motor oil all year round, and if the bike has been sitting, starting is subject to occasional drama.

This motorcycle had absolutely not been sitting. I needn’t have worried.

The big Brick swung hard on the starter – 28 degreed be damned – and fired on the second stroke.

I’ve never been as glad to hear that bike fire and come to idle as I was that morning.

I went stands up and headed up US 19 west towards Cherokee.

The moment 19 leaves Maggie Valley, the road makes an entertaining run up the mountain.  Where the road crosses into the Cherokee Nation the landscape changes into deep and rugged canyonlands, with the road following with switchback after switchback. Coffee or no coffee, I was well awake now.

Rolling into Cherokee proper, I visited three different Shell stations before I found one who had a working high-test pump. Heading up to The Drive – where there is no fuel — with anything less than a full fuel tank is just bad planning.  With the sun deciding to make a special appearance today, the temperatures in Cherokee were rising quickly though the upper thirties.

After about a mile and half run out of Cherokee up US 441, there is a sign announcing the entrance into Great Smoky Mountains National Park, followed by a subtle sign announcing the southern entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway.

I took the right and throttled up.

I’ve ridden most of the BRP at one time or other, but never the southern leg south of Asheville.

This morning was to put paid to that unridden bit.

It only took a few corners to underscore just what a good decision it had been to take the slight backtrack to Cherokee and to run north from the Southern End. The Southern Section of the Drive from Cherokee to Ashville might well be the most spectacular section of the Drive. All but three of the BRP’s famous stone tunnels are in this section, and the elevations are higher, and the views down the valleys into Great Smoky Mountain National Park and the Pisgah National Forest more dramatic.

The road’s corners are generally tighter and more technical than they are further north, and straights and passing zones are in genuinely short supply – most motorcycles will never use their top transmission gear in this stretch. As we climbed, the temperature fell quickly back into the low thirties. The spectacular 800 to 1500 foot drops off the sides of the roadway should be sufficient motivation to keep most motorcyclists making good roadcraft decisions.   

As I rolled up the first of many tunnels, I noticed a strangely fresh-looking hand lettered sign – it looked as if it were a refugee from a Roadrunner cartoon – which said simply “Ice In Tunnels!”

My exhortation upon reading this is not appropriate for use in this, a family-friendly show.

The Blue Ridge Parkway’s tunnels are notable for two qualities The first is that there is absolutely no artificial light in them — mornings like this one, one was in crisp bright blue mountain air one moment, and in the next second plunged into almost total darkness. The second quality is that most of the tunnels are not straight. Combine those two qualities and you have a perfect storm designed to strip a motorcyclist of all situational awareness. Fortunately someone from the park service has spent some effort to install highly reflective tape on both the centerlines and where the guardrails would be if there were any on the sides of the tunnel walls.   The reflectives give the distinct appearance of a Video Game Driving Simulator – they’re vivid, but appear to be unreal. Combine them with the possibility of ice, and its enough to have one drifting about on tentative throttle.

Halfway down the first tunnel, my High Intensity Discharge headlamp picked up a pair of clearly defined frozen puddles near the centerline of the road. Apparently the tunnels of the ceiling drip water, and in last night’s frigid temperatures, they had frozen into lovely little blocks of perfect, shiny black ice.

Was quite glad I hadn’t found them the hard way while carrying some speed and cornering forces.

Thanks for the warning, Mr. Park Ranger, Sir.

Admittedly, upon first climbs and corners, I was having a hard time hitting my riding groove. My corner entries were ragged – I weight the pegs to turn this bike, and I’m normally 2-3 inches accurate as to where I intend to put the motorcycle, and I was chasing my tail for the first few miles – every move was either too much or too little.

I was just stinking up the joint.

Finally, the rider unit became fully warmed through, and road enlightenment occurred.

Being up here during the week meant I didn’t have to share this road – I was largely by myself.

I did see one brand new black Harley Davidson Pan America beating in the opposite direction and really flying. That bike seemed strangely familiar.  

All the stone cliff walls running by the side of the road have springs that continuously flow water – again, given the low temperatures of last night the cliff walls were covered with massive sheets of ice. As the temperatures at altitude gradually cleared freezing, the strong sun was causing the ice sheets to become unstable, and they were just spontaneously jumping free of the rock and crashing to the pavement, where they shattered loudly – looking for all the world like glass breaking and sparkling in the sunshine.

I adjusted my corning lines subtly toward the centerline as this natural artillery attack lasted about 20 minutes as the temperatures rose.

Moms Nature never ceases to amaze.    

Finally finding rhythm, I worked the corners with increasing grace and confidence.

On one corner exit, I saw a Dark Blue Chevy Astro Van with a camping conversion working its way up the road several corners ahead. Unlike most of my fellow road users, this driver seemed to be engaged and appeared to know what he was doing – none of the 11 Deadly Signs of The Cell Phone Deadhead were anywhere in evidence.

After one corner exit, I straightened the bike up and saw a rare legal and safe passing zone. I have a transmission and know how to use it – a quick drop to third gear and some enthusiastic throttle had the Astro in perceived reverse, and I was back into the clear.

Left. Right. Views into apparent heaven below.  Repeat.

The desired meditative state had been achieved.

So, of course, I was immediately interrupted.

A small, regulation US Forest Service Gray sign announced – “Richland Balsam Overlook” – better known as The Highest Spot on The Motor Road. I’m not much on stopping to sightsee and brandish the camera when I’m riding, but this was different.

It’s a Good Spot with a Big Drop

I applied some healthy braking, and banked right into the second entrance to the Overlook, and then slowly rolled over to the sign.

If you are a Member of the Adventure Rider online community, you have seen 17,000 pictures of the sign. I was aiming to make it 17,001.

The best I can figure is that the incomprehensible wear and tear that the motoring universe – both 2 and 4 wheeled – has caused by NEEEDING to take pictures of their vehicles at this spot has resulted in the flagstone pavement being in somewhat less than optimum shape. As I rolled to a stop just next to The Sign, both wheels of the LT dropped into a substantial crater in the paving.

“No matter”, thunk I. “I’ll just give the bike a little kick from the low speed reverse gear, and we’ll just walk up out of this hole.”

This was the moment which my British friends would characterize as “when everything went pair-shaped”.

Instead of walking right up out of that hole, the back tire kicked sideways, the bars snapped over, and I had an immediate decision to make. Did I want to fight this, and risk injuring myself more than 500 miles from home, or was it time to abandon ship and get clear?

The Normal Force is the force pressing down on the surface where any object sits. For no known reason, there was a momentary fluctuation in the LT’s Normal Force, and then it stabilized again.    

A K1200 LT hitting the ground makes a sound like a huge bass drum with a blanket stuffed inside it.

Its not a sound I’m likely to forget.

I’ve owned and ridden one of these motorcycles since late in 1999, I used to tell people that I was the only K1200T owner –  that I knew of  – that had never dropped their motorcycle.  

I can’t tell people that anymore.

I couldn’t even manage even a low voltage expletive. It was really kinda funny, actually.

I kill switched the bike, turned off the ignition, and took a few steps back to consider my predicament.   

“Well, its freezing, there’s nobody else up here, and if I can’t manage the Famous Skert Maneuver on my first attempt, somebody could find me dead up here whenever real springtime finally shows up.”

“No pressure.”

I was just doing a few preparatory stretches and trying to decide whether to unload the bike when The Blue Astro Van Camper pulled up.

“Hey bud. You need a hand?”

“Maybe not need, but a hand never hurts. Thanks!”

Astro Van Camper Man, it turned out, had a big Indian tourer, so he was familiar with the drill.

With him spotting from the rear of the bike, I got my butt on the seat, grabbed the LT’s grab handle, and backed up slowly with my legs. Darkside didn’t exactly leap right up, but stand up she did. AVCM put a shoulder into the bike while I pulled the bars back around and set the sidestand.

Mission Accomplished.

I would very much like to thank the designer that built tip over frames into the LT’s fairing and bags. As AVCM and I stood there looking at the bike, there was a scuff on one of the crash bar covers, and a small paint chip on the lower belly pan. I licked my finger, and ran it across the scuffed cover, and the scuff came off with a single rub of a spitty finger.

There was no other easily discernable damage.

Both of us had a good laugh.

We talked bikes for a while. He wanted to know how much the LT weighed and was surprised at how much more than his Chief it was.

I thanked him profusely, then set about getting the most expensive picture in the history of the world.

A picture that had only cost me my pride.

It Looks So Much More Impressive When You’re Not Staring at The Oilpan

Bright Blue Skies and A Very Big Hole

The rest of the ride was nowhere that eventful, although my Internal Pilot Self Criticism Unit kept providing unhelpful advice like ‘Better be tidy exiting this corner – wouldn’t want to see your bike on its side or anything….’

I did have the experience and opportunity to consider mysteries like ‘Why does Interstate 26 West run North and East headed out of Asheville?’ and ‘Why does one never get a ride on Interstate 81 without some form of Monster Accident Backup?’. Conditions continued to be on the cold side, but heated grips and occasional use of the LT’s heated saddle kept my core body temperature nominal.

At about 9:00 the LT went stands down in Jefferson.

We were 623 miles for the day. I got the bike up on the mainstand back in the shop, and after nearly 1200 miles of running nearly flat out, the bike hadn’t consumed any measurable oil.   

Someone at a BMW Dealership I visited recently saw my bike recently and commented that ‘Most folks had traded up from those some time ago.’

I responded that it still did everything I needed it to, and it still did it well. With only 102,000 miles on the clocks, I figure I’m still good for more than another 200,000 of those.

I took the camera out of the LT’s top case, turned out the shop light, and went inside to download and look at my photos.

I’m looking forward to the opportunity to tell the story that took me up The Parkway.