* * Motorcycling on a cold day in December

I'm an avid motorcyclist; I ride in all types of conditions. Today, it was cold. Very cold!

My plan was to meet my friend Gregg at the truck stop in Ironto and ride to Union, West Virginia. The Korner Kafe there sells my books for me, and I was carrying extra copies to replenish their stock. I arrived a few minutes prior to our 9:00 a.m. rendezvous time and I waited. And waited. By 9:10, I decided he had either had a problem or we had gotten our signals crossed, so I set off on my own. It was 27F.

I was riding my classic 1981 Honda CBX motorcycle. The CBX was made in limited quantities and didn't sell well, but it has a fabulous 1050cc in-line 6-cylinder engine. When it’s working the way it should, it is a joy to ride.

I began my journey down Bradshaw Road, adjusting myself physically and emotionally to the ride. I wore four layers on my torso, three on my legs. The third layer on my torso is an electrically heated vest that runs on the bike's battery. I electrified it myself, taking an old thrift store jacket and threading a thin wire through it. I have perhaps $10 worth of materials in it, but it is worth its weight in gold. I also have heated grips, which helps to warm my hands. But my fingertips were cold nonetheless.

Birds flitted around and I kept alert to any deer that may have wanted to share my stretch of pavement with me. Deer are always a threat to motor vehicles, but especially to motorcycles. I've never hit one, but I know people who have and it is always ugly. It was windy and fallen leaves blew across the pavement ahead of me.

Traffic was non-existent; I had the road to myself. It had rained heavily a few days earlier, but happily the pavement was mostly dry. Catawba Mountain was bold and dramatic, painted in the brown of winter with numerous rock outcroppings showing through the trees.

I turned left on SR-311, and as I accelerated, I passed a cop's car sitting beside the road, likely waiting to ruin somebody’s day. The curves ascending Catawba Mountain were fun and not-too-fast.

I descended into Catawba and passed a couple of cars on my way into New Castle, county seat of Craig County, and continued northward towards Potts Mountain. Potts is the first of two mountains that were on my itinerary, Peters being the other. The border of Virginia and West Virginia rides the ridgeline of Peters.

The ascent to Potts’ 3808-foot pass is one of my favorite motorcycle roads. It is smooth and curvy, with great views and good sight distances. Through the middle of the ascent, the roads were dry. But as I continued to ascend, I encountered several wet patches. They portended more problems ahead, obvious immediately as I crested the pass and prepared myself for the descent on the shaded, north side. I had only gone 100 yards or so before it became evident that while riding uphill on the south face was nerve-wracking, riding downhill on the north face would be treacherous and scary. So for a change, I allowed my good senses to take over and I turned around and went back the way I had come. The Korner Kafe in Union would need to wait for another day.

My mind drifted back to a similar ride last winter. I had arrived at Paint Bank, eager to go inside and warm myself by the fire. Before I did, I spoke with a Harley rider who was trying fitfully to fill his tank. He was hypothermic, shaking convulsively and unable to manipulate the gas pump. He was wearing a leather jacket (zero thermal protection) and a wool sweater underneath, exposed at the top. I wondered how his thought process worked in spending thousands on a bike but unable to rationalize spending a hundred on warm weather gear.

The ride back down was great fun; fast and incredibly scenic. Sunbeams illuminated the valley and reflected off the creek way below. Awesome!

I reached the bottom of the valley and rode back into New Castle. From there, I turned right on SR-42 and ascended Sinking Creek Mountain. There is a dramatic overlook of the New Castle area halfway up, but I have stopped there before so this time I did a drive-by. It's 30 miles from New Castle to Newport, and all of it is heart-achingly gorgeous, a delightful mix of forests, farms, and old houses, many dating before the Civil War. Cows and horses munched lazily on brown grasses.

The switch on my jacket had been "on" since I started, but with the emerging sun, I was finally able to turn it "off" a few miles before Newport.

The water in Sinking Creek was clear and fast with the recent rains.

I turned left on US-460 and rode over twin mountains Gap and Brush into Blacksburg towards home. I re-filled the tank; I'd gotten 38-mpg.

My friend in Canada told me he'd already parked the bike for winter. But here, I figure the season never ends. Today's ride wasn't the ride I'd planned, but it was wonderful nonetheless.