THE HILLBILLY HIGHWAY

The first year we had the Road King, we took a trip out east. We headed for Charlotte via Deals Gap, then to the coast of South Carolina, then up the Outer Banks, across Virginia, and down the Blue Ridge back into South Carolina. Now, I have a reason for writing this, but let me get to it later.

The King was new. Broken in. Saddlebags. Comfy. The Cadillac of motorcycles. That meant one thing…road trip! There were a lot of things I wanted to see out east. Years ago, a fan sitting in front of us at the half-mile at I-96 Speedway was wearing a t-shirt that said something about “Deals Gap”. I asked him about it during a break in the racing action.

There are usually plenty of breaks in the action at I-96. There is no fence except for the front straight, so the riders can get pretty bold with outside passes. They don’t have to worry about hitting a fence, usually a pretty painful occurrence. The track is above the surrounding cornfields, so whenever a rider discovers that he is headed off the track, he usually has time to sit up straight so he rides off the track, instead of sliding or tumbling off it. Then he immediately disappears, down into the cornfields and out of the reach of the track lighting. Usually he will reappear farther down the track to applause from the fans, but sometimes a search party becomes necessary.

During one of those breaks in the action, I asked the guy about the “Deals Gap” on his shirt. He described the Dragon. It sounded like a lot of fun: a place to play Kenny Roberts (Nicky Hayden to you young punks). So the Gap was put on the ‘list’ of future rides.

In 2000, the year we got the King, they were holding a half-mile in Charlotte, NC. From inspections of MS Streets and Trips on the computer when I was supposed to be working, Charlotte seemed to be on the other side of Deals Gap from Chicago.

This could be a great race. It was Will Davis’ home track, and he was pretty hot that year. What could be better than getting to see him kick some butt on his home track? Deals Gap and Charlotte were put on the trip itinerary.

We had watched a food show (my favorite kind of show, imagine that) on TV about a little town in North Carolina that was famous for fresh seafood. Calabash. It had a cool name, too. It was added to the itinerary.

Pam wanted to see Myrtle Beach in South Carolina. Added.

The Outer Banks? I wasn’t really sure what they were, but the Wright brothers liked them, and Cape Hatteras was a name I had heard in countless weather reports. Besides, they were involved with the ocean somehow, so they were added.

Of course the Blue Ridge Parkway needed to be ridden. If we were out there, why not?

Finally, the Hillbilly Highway. It’s actually designated the “Country Music Highway”, because so many great singers and songwriters grew up along it, but to me it is the Hillbilly Highway that Steve Earle sang about. US 23. The highway from Appalachia to the auto plants of Detroit.

“My granddaddy was a miner, but he finally saw the light
Hedidn't have much, just a beat-up truck and a dream about a better life
Grandmamma cried when she waved goodbye, never heard such a lonesome sound
Pretty soon the dirt road turned into blacktop, Detroit City bound
Downthat hillbilly highway”

My people came from down there. Not coal miners, farmers. They didn’t head to Detroit, but west, long before the great industrial migration from the coalmines to Detroit. But the mountains get imprinted on your DNA. I guess the highway does too.

Reveal is still in South Carolina. Buried on the farm that his son John Wesley left just before they discovered gold there. He moved west to Kentucky, where my great-grandfather Rufus was born. Rufus fought all over the country during the Civil War, then he settled in Southern Illinois. He managed to stay above ground and out of the coalmines down there too. Tilling the soil
to a ripe old age.

I managed to stay out of the coal mines myself. As a truck driver from Pennsylvania told me, back when I was a driver, "Beats workin' in a coal mine."

Anyway, those mountains always seemed like home. Rivers do too. And highways.

The Hillbilly Highway could be our route back.

So, that was the plan. A loose plan. If it was too rainy or cold in the mountains, spend more time on the coast. If the coast was too hot, skip it and head back to the mountains. Burn up some interstates, ride some twisty roads in the mountains, and cruise along the Atlantic.

The ride to Knoxville was pretty uneventful. Some great steak and eggs in an old-time truck stop along 30 in Indiana. Looking overhead as we crossed the Ohio into Kentucky from Cincinnati and seeing a Bald Eagle soaring above. Lexington was hot. Kentucky was hot. We followed 129 through Knoxville and headed up into the cooler mountains.

We stopped at an overlook before 129 entered the Gap. Another rider there said we should wait before heading into the Dragon, because he had just called an ambulance for a wreck up the road. He said to be cautious, the Dragon bit lots of riders. We talked with him for a while, until the ambulance blew past led by a sheriff’s deputy, and headed into the Gap.

Stopped on an overlook before running the Gap:
The gap was fun, but not really a road for loaded-down road bikes. Too much scraping of footboards in the corners, and lots of completely blind corners. Kenny Roberts (Nicky Hayden) I wasn’t. You can’t really lean a RK that far, plus I enjoy getting to see a crotch-rocket a couple of seconds before it flies around a corner toward me. But it was fun.

Pam pointed to a road to the right with a sign for lodging, and asked if I wanted to see what it was like. She had ideas of whip-or-wills and owls singing her to sleep. The road was loose gravel; twisty, and headed up the side of the mountain to who knows where. After about a quarter-mile in and a half-mile up, I stopped. I no longer wanted to see if the lodgings were a peaceful little mountain cabin. I paddled back and forth between the ditches, in the loose gravel, swearing pretty much constantly as Pam stood on the road trying not to laugh, and finally got the bike pointed back in a downward direction. We got back on the Dragon, enjoyed the rest of the ride through the gap, bought a t-shirt proclaiming that we had done it, and headed for Charlotte.

Somehow Pam broke a tooth off in North Carolina. I swear it wasn’t me! I think it has something to do with getting o-l-d, because I have cracked a couple during past years. She wanted to stop and see if somebody could put something on it so she could quit bothering it with her tongue. This being Saturday, no dentists seemed to be open, so we stopped at a hospital in Ashville. They couldn’t do anything for her. I think we ended up stopping at Wally World and getting some beeswax to cover the sharp end. It did start a tradition of stopping at various hospitals in the middle of trips. But that’s another story.

With hanging around the emergency room in Ashville, we arrived in Charlotte a little while before the races would start, found a motel, dumped some stuff off the bike, and headed for the track.

What a track! This NASCAR deal must be a real moneymaker, because there was some big-time money tied up in the track. Even the dirt track where the bike races were going to be held were the fanciest grandstands I have ever seen. Not the state and county fair tracks that GNC races were usually held at, or seedy horse race tracks, but big-time fancy. And everybody around us in the stands sounded exactly like Will Davis every time they opened their mouths.

NASCAR money means nice grandstands:
It turned out that Will wasn’t going to race that night. He had broken something; I think his wrist, shortly before the race in a church baseball game. He was pretty funny in the interview, swearing that he would stick to the safe sport of motorcycle racing and stay away from baseball. I miss him at the races. And I miss his Carolina accent. He did win Springfield and a few other races that year, before getting killed at the Sedalia half-mile the next season. When Mees got a national number, he took Will’s #21, and is doing it proud, scraping the cases in half-mile corners like Will used to do, and kicking the rear end out far enough that he backs into the corners.

The GNC Experts during practice:
Hacker won the race. First one we ever saw him win.

We headed back to the motel, looking for food, because there hadn’t been time for dinner before the race. It was pretty late, so most places were closed. I introduced Pam to the culinary delights at the Waffle House.

There was some kind of battle going on in the parking lot between a two losers. Food seemed more important than watching the Charlotte version of the Springer show, so we headed inside. Apparently the two guys in the parking lot were two thirds of the cook staff, and the third quit halfway through cooking our breakfasts. The waitress finished cooking our meal (how hard can it be), served us and quit also. I don’t know if this is a common occurrence at Waffle Houses nationwide, but we have had the staffs quit in the middle of the night at two of them, but managed to get our food at both!

The next morning, we bummed around downtown Charlotte for a while, looking at the buildings and being tourists. Then headed toward Myrtle Beach.

Downtown Charlotte on a Sunday morning:
We took the breezeway south for a while, then jumped on two-lanes toward the coast. Wondered what the unfamiliar crops along the road were. Stopped at a café in a small town for lunch, and tried a South Carolina hot dog: a chilidog with coleslaw on top. Pretty tasty! We headed east toward the Atlantic.

I don't remember the name of the town with this nicely trimmed house, but the cafe there served a great hot dog:
Myrtle Beach was not my cup of tea. It seemed to be golf courses and expensive seaside resort type motels. I felt really out of place and unwelcome when checking motel prices. I guess if you have to ask…

We headed south of town, where we had seen some less expensive looking lodgings, and found a nice blue and white place on the beach. Pam was already planning to push the bed near the sliding doors so she could hear the ocean all night. Things did not work out quite that way.

We unloaded the bike, dumped the stuff in the room, and checked out the beach. It was nice. Pam asked, “What’s that?” pointing out to the ocean.

It looked like a tornado, so it must be a waterspout. It was not moving to either side, so I figured it was heading directly away from us or directly toward us. Hmm. It seemed to be heading toward us. The staff at the beach side restaurant next to the motel seemed to think it was heading toward us also, judging by their hurried rolling in of canopies and lowering of umbrellas and hustling them indoors. It hit about a hundred yards up the beach, losing power as it crossed onto the sand, and disappearing completely just before hitting a beach house. Then the thunder and lightning started. It lasted all night. No ocean sounds for Pam, but one great light show.

Waterspout makes landfall in Myrtle Beach:
We pushed up US 17 in the morning. It was not actually on the ocean, and inland enough that it was a standard chain-store road with enough traffic to make any sightseeing impossible. We passed through Myrtle Beach and North Myrtle Beach with their golf courses, resorts, t-shirt shops, and go-kart tracks. Not my kind of road, but Calabash was ahead with the promise of fresh seafood.

Expectations of great food can cause great disappointment. To ride halfway across the country yearning for fresh, ocean fish makes that disappointment more certain. Stumbling across great food makes it tastier, but somehow expecting great food can make it taste bland. I think that was the case in Calabash. Still a cool name for a town, though. And it was a working town, not a tourist town, always a plus in my book.

We stopped in the harbor in Wilmington, NC to see a WWII battleship docked there, and take a little break from the Road King seat. Pushed on past Camp Lejeune, into Berne, caught US 70 east, and took it into Morehead City. Got a motel. The motel-keeper told us that waterspouts were common along the coast, that he had seen as many as three at one time. We got a ferry schedule and directions to the Ocracoke ferry, some dinner, and hit the sack.

The North Carolina in Wilmington Harbor:
Somehow the next morning we missed the ferry we had planned to take. Maps are nice things, but I would rather trust in my frontiersman’s sense of direction. It hasn’t let me down yet. We saw a lot of nice scenery while exploring the outer reaches of North Carolina, but the dang ferry wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

We did see a family of Osprey fishing in the coastal backwaters. What a sight. We watched for an hour or so as they soared and dived for fish.

I did, finally, find the ferry landing. We had a long wait till the next ferry, and the sky was again darkening with low clouds. When the ferry finally arrived, we rode the bike on deck and prepared her for her first ocean cruise. The wind had picked up as the clouds rolled in, and I expected rough seas. I parked the King next to the rail, leaned her over on the kickstand, and was able to hold the rail while sitting on the bike. The sea wasn’t too rough, and there was only a light sprinkling of rain as we crossed to the Outer Banks.

We docked at Ocracoke, and rode onto dry land again. Not dry for too long, however. It started to rain seriously as we turned from the ferry landing onto North Carolina Route 12. We tiptoed along Ocracoke Island to the other end and caught the Hatteras ferry. Still pouring. We stopped to look at the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. Still pouring.

I’m sure that the Outer Banks are a beautiful place. I plan on seeing them in the sunshine someday, but my impression of them is feeling a constant trickle of water down my spine, trying to keep my face shield clear enough to see the road, and wet feet and hands. The feeling of dread stays with me too: seeing a very long, very tall bridge in the distance, and hoping that the deck would be a solid one, and that the wind wouldn’t blow us into the Atlantic as we crossed the bridge.

It was slow going up the Outer Banks. I gave up, still south of Killdevil Hill where the Wright brothers had launched powered aviation, and crossed another long bridge onto mainland Virginia. A motel and a roof was the plan, but we seemed to have landed in Virginia somewhere far from any civilization. Still raining. Getting dark. Somewhere near the Great Dismal Swamp. The name fit the day.

Finally, civilization. Lights. Motels. Restaurants. The desk clerk offered the canopy by the entrance as a spot to park the bike. It would stay dry and be visible to the clerk all night. We went upstairs to the room, took hot showers, and hung wet clothes everywhere. The rain stopped and we headed for a nearby restaurant and food.

The next day, with beautiful weather, we headed back toward the Blue Ridge. Stopped in the “Peanut Capitol of the World”, , and bought peanut souvenirs. Stopped for gas at a crossroads. There was a farmer selling fresh watermelons from the back of his pickup. They sure looked good. One seemed too heavy to add to our already heavy load, so we didn’t get one. I think it was a mistake: could have been the best watermelon in the world. Bypassed Richmond on the interstate, and ran west to Staunton, Virginia and got a room.

The Peanut Capital:
We spent the next two days on the Parkway. What a nice road. We didn’t make too many miles, because there are a lot of overlooks. We ended up stopping at most of them. The clouds scraping over the mountains were a beautiful sight. Lots of butterflies, lots of flowers. Nice curves for the Road King. A gentle cruise through the mountains, breathing the mountain air and enjoying the sights.

Blue Ridge sunbeams:Relaxing curves:

Clouds scraping over the mountains:

Back in North Carolina, we exited the Parkway and headed to the Hillbilly Highway.

It was different than I expected: a four lane divided US highway populated with coal trucks and logging trucks, all in a hurry. Poverty on both sides of the road. Those trucks might as well be loaded with the local dollars, hauling them out of the area. But it was the road: the Hillbilly Highway. If the riches of the earth had benefited the people around there, there would be no Hillbilly Highway leading to Detroit.

The Hillbilly Highway:

As John Prine sings:

“Then the coal company came, with the world's largest shovel,
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land.
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken.
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.
And Daddy won't you take me back to Muhlenberg county,
Down by the Green River, where Paradise lay.
"Well I'm sorry, my son, but you're too late in askin'."
"Mr. Peabody's coal train has hauled it away."

23 winds up the eastern border of Kentucky. By Loretta Lynn’s home. Dwight Yoakum’s. Ricky Scaggs. Ricky does a great version of Hillbilly Highway. You know he gets it. The road runs along the Big Sandy part of the way.

This is coal country. Always been coal country. Probably always will be.

But it’s beautiful. Even fighting the coal trucks for part of the road, you can’t miss the beauty around you. This is the reality of the Appalacians. Not the fantasy of the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Did I stop for a Smashburger? You bet!
But, as I said: I have a reason for writing this besides a story about a motorcycle ride. To the right of 23, soon after we got on the road, way down south in Kentucky, the mountains are gone. They have been replaced with flat-topped mesas. No trees. No peaks. A wasted lunar landscape. It is called mountain top removal. The hot set-up in coal mining nowdays.
I can’t really describe the shock of looking to the right, expecting to see mountains, and seeing this instead. I suppose the scars will heal someday. The trees will grow back. Streams will cut new valleys through the debris that now fills the valleys. But the mountaintops will never return. Millions of years went into creating the mountains. We are now destroying them.

This was a few years ago. The practice seems to have become more efficient with practice. The lost mountains are visible from space now: brown devastation in a sea of shrinking green mountains. It seems to be the way the world has worked for awhile. Big money, in this case, coal companies, buy politicians. The politicians look the other way. Away from the people that elected them to be their representatives.

The mountains are destroyed. The streams are filled in, or poisoned with the byproducts of this kind of mining. People’s wells run black. Even if they don’t, drinking that water will kill you pretty quick.

Sad.

“They dug for their coal till the land was forsaken.
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.”

If you have never been out there, go see the mountains. While you still can. Go see the people. While you still can. Something very sad about exchanging America for a dollar.