Storming Down The Coast...
Tackling a new adventure is never easy. I guess that's why in the past folks have left trying new things to that kid named Mikey on those Life Cereal commercials. But, human nature prods us to investigate the world around us. I guess that explains why instead of eating cereal, I ate paint chips and drank out of the dog bowl as a kid. It also might have been the result of my sister removing all of the "Mr. Yuk" stickers and placing them on her dolls. My point is, and sometimes, because of the paint chips and other things I may have investigated throughout life, it takes me a while to have a point-is that too many of us sit stagnant. Too many of us seek out the world by watching images of far off places and other people's reality and only dream of creating our own experiences.
True, the mind is a great tool for travel. It can take you on an ultra-supersonic jet ride and land you in a far off remote location faster than one of my farts can empty a crowded movie theater. But thank God for cinema fanatics everywhere, my smelly butt doesn't like to sit back, relax and enjoy the show. My cheeks prefer the saddle. I'm compelled to twist the throttle towards real experiences in search of life-in search of freedom. Naturally, I turned to those who knew a little something about it: the forefathers of our country. So I embarked on a Freedom Tour-riding an '08 Victory Vision Street from, D.C., to Savannah. If any of you Victory marketing guys are reading this, please loan me a Arlen Ness Vision for a tour to Alaska this summer.
I found freedom in our nation's capital city where we have a giant phallic monument and I found freedom in the 18th Century, via Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia, where I was clearly the only male who knew anything about hair hygiene. Confused? Read the last two issue of Baggers for clarification. It was when I ventured to North Carolina that freedom and Mother Nature challenged me to a duel-much like that whole Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton thing back in the day. Feel free to pause and look it up.
At first I was a coward regarding the weather. Sure, I had the right gear and everything thanks to the dudes at First Gear, but I was talking back and forth in my mind. Do I look stupid in full black and neon yellow rain gear-instead of tough guy leather? Will other bikers accept me? Is my bike cool enough? Look at the internet and check out the biker chatrooms. They are filled with talks ranging from whether it's cool to have a windshield or what leather vests are the best. Bikers are meant to be as free as possible. Worrying about whether or not you are wearing the cool biker costume of the month defeats the entire purpose. I said screw-it, manned up, and charged into the storm that awaited me on the Outer Banks. Learn from my mistake and call 511 for road conditions and ferry schedules before you head out.
The sky didn't puke all over me until I showed up a few minutes too late to check out the Wright Brothers National Museum located south of Kitty Hawk in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. I wanted to get a look at the birthplace of flight ever since my sister pushed me off our balcony when I was in third grade. As I showed up, the menacing-OK not menacing, but he looked like he hated his job-guy in the brown uniform closed the gate. It was an omen.
The winds flipped the power switch to high as the rain came down harder. My last chance for a bailout was to take the Washington Baum Bridge onto Roanoke Island. If I were a gambling man, which I am, I'd choose to press my luck and keep heading south past the point of no return. Most intelligent and safe riders would have chosen to do a fancy U-turn and high-tail it back to where they came from at the beginning of the Outer Banks and hop a bridge to the mainland. I never told anyone that I am smart, so I kept battling toward the south end of the Banks.