* * Down the road on a classic motorcycle

I love motorcycles. From my earliest memories, I’ve been intrigued.  Mom wouldn’t let me own one until I was 14, but I’ve owned one – and sometimes way more than one –most of my life since.

Protective gear is an every-ride thing with me: stiff boots, padded outerwear and a full-face helmet. Good gear makes a world of difference if something bad happens. Ask me how I know.

I have four bikes now, coincidentally all Hondas. But my favorite is the oldest, a classic 1981 Honda CBX. It has a magnificent 1047cc transverse in-line six-cylinder engine. This is my second bike of the same model. The first I bought with 22,000 miles on it and put another 50,000 myself before selling it. The current one I bought two years ago with a mere 900 miles; it’s essentially a brand-new 30-year old motorcycle.

Lashing on my helmet on a clear, crisp recent Sunday morning, I turn the key “on” and push the electric starter, and the motor spins to life. The six cylinders feed two mufflers which are stock and pretty quiet. I once had a bike with loud, aftermarket pipes, and I hated the excessive noise. I don’t like the noise myself and don’t feel that I should be inflicting the auditory onslaught on others.

Good motorcycling roads are something my local friends and I take for granted, but the Central Appalachians are one of the world’s best places to ride. On this day, I head down to Ellett Valley and take North Fork Road towards Ironto.

Like most of our country roads, North Fork is lightly traveled and curvy, making it a great road for a quiet morning’s ride. The fall leaves are at their peak, and the color is striking. It seems that all summer, the trees stand quietly in the forests looking uniformly green, content to be part of the choir, but in the fall, each one wants to stand out in brilliant colors and be a soloist.

I ride all the way to Masons Cove in Roanoke County, overtaking only one car. My speed is held in check not so much by the curves or the speed limits, but by the ever-present fear of deer. Years ago, I led a ride with five bikes behind me, and the fourth rider struck a deer which was evidently undeterred by the other bikes. I’ve never hit one or even had a close call, but I know the damage they can do. I’ll swerve if I can to avoid a squirrel, and on this morning several seem to have death wishes. Fortunately, I miss them all.

I turn northwards on SR-311 and over Catawba Mountain to Catawba. This is one of the typically wonderfully curvy mountain roads we have around here, with good pavement, gently sweeping curves, and great views; it’s the type of road most drivers hate and motorcyclists love. Sometimes when there is a car in front of me, I pull to the shoulder and wait several seconds to allow a gap, because it’s frustrating to follow one on a twisty road.

At New Castle, rather than turning home right away, I drive up and over Potts Mountain, one of the most spectacular roads around, to Paint Bank. This otherwise perfect motorcycling experience has been hampered by VDOT since they patched cracks in the road with “asphalt snakes” last summer, which can are unnerving at best, dangerously slippery at worst. Otherwise, I’m in two-wheeled bliss. This bike, even being as old as it is, is capable of incredible lean angles, and its movement is elegant and satisfying. My concentration is heightened, intense. Riding this machine, arching back and forth on the many combination curves, is viscerally and aesthetically pleasing and appealing. I have the road to myself; there is nobody else around. The views from the mountain are grand and full of color and awe. I feel a smile pressing my cheeks against the inside padding of the helmet.

Back in New Castle, I turn right on SR-42 and ascend the gap between Sinking Creek and Johns Creek Mountains. SR-42 in Craig and Giles Counties, I’m convinced, is one of the most beautiful 30-mile stretches of road in the world, with constantly changing views of farms, forests, and pastures, bordered by parallel mountains. The fall colors are superb and the warm sun warms my leather jacket. I fall into a meditative state and my mind wanders wherever it will. Nirvana.

I rejoin the world of superhighways and traffic in Newport for the final leg of the journey back into Blacksburg, watching my speed carefully. The bike purrs like a kitten, its dated but still potent engine seemingly as delighted by the ride as me.

I refill with regular gasoline after 120 miles (37 miles per gallon), and park the bike in its place of pride in the garage.