* * Getting high on dopamine

I don’t have a death wish.  I swear.  Both granddads lived into their 90s and dad is still going strong at 82.  Death will come for all of us someday, but as Ralph Stanley implores in O Death, Won't you spare me over til another year? I’m hoping to see 100. Still, I can’t help myself from riding motorcycles.

I took a long walk yesterday on The Huckleberry Trail with an old friend, a woman who went with me to grade school, high school and part of college.  The issue of motorcycles came up.  She said she’d never ride one. She told me a long story of growing up in our hometown of Christiansburg where the school bus driver on the hill where she lived often drove recklessly and many times overshot her bus stop. She was so scared that she insisted her mother drive her to school for all the years afterward. “I am terrified by the feeling of being out of control and having no protection around,” she explained.

“But when you fly, someone else is piloting. You have the airplane itself around you, but they don’t offer much in the way of crash protection.”

“I’ve only flown twice in my life and I hate the prospect of flying again.”

“I love to fly,” I exclaimed. “Life has risks.  It’s a terminal disease.  But far more people I know have died prematurely from poor nutrition and lifestyle choices than reckless accidents.”

I’m particularly enamored with motorcycling. It’s a thrilling activity. It’s reasonably priced and easily accessible (unlike bungee jumping, skydiving, and many other thrilling things). I haven’t crashed in a long time and my crashes haven’t been serious. Motorcycles can be scary, but the most scared I’ve been in a long time was driving Interstate 81 back from Roanoke one night recently during a sleet storm.  Trucks were kicking up drenching sprays of water and visibility was awful.  And I was in my car.

I’m told there is lots of psychology surrounding thrill seekers.  Apparently the people who look for thrills are more often adolescents. Perhaps those of us “of a certain age” who still enjoy our thrills are thought of as adolescents – or at least are still chasing our youth. I suppose it’s a Darwin thing that thrill-seeking behavior is a leading cause of death in adolescents, but less so for us oldsters – probably because if we made it this far, our chances for survival improve.  I’ve been at gatherings of motorcyclist where we’re all a bit astonished we’ve lived as long as we have.

The neurotransmitter dopamine has been linked to sensation-seeking behavior. Is there a reason it begins with “dope”? Researchers can’t seem to understand why some folks have it and some don’t.

All this aside, not having a motorcycle around here is like not having a sailboat around Key West or a set of skis at Aspen. We have pleasant seasons, lots of curvy, generally well-maintained roads, and wonderful scenery. Why would anyone not ride a motorcycle?

I told my friend that I’d be happy to take her for a ride. She said her psychologist had suggested she do the same to help overcome the fear. I apologize if I sound smug, because it is not my intention, but I don’t know too many motorcyclists who seem to need psychologists. I doubt my friend will ever accept my offer.

* * Writing the next book

With books #1 and #2 already in print and book #3 on its way, I’m beginning to think about what comes next.

As I wrote on this blog a month or so ago, new novel is percolating in the back of my head. I’ve done some preliminary work on a story I would someday like to write about a girl from Atlanta who is transitioning to adulthood. The story begins as she arrives at the Old Fiddlers’ Convention in Galax. She’s a violin prodigy and she takes an interest in traditional Appalachian music. Within days of her arrival, the national power grid fails and she is stuck, forced to make the area around Galax her home for awhile. I haven't started yet because I don't yet have a clear picture of where the story might go.

Meanwhile, I am compelled to stick closer to what has become my “bread and butter,” writing about the people of a region or a corridor.

From the mid-1940s until the late 1960s, the Norfolk and Western Railroad ran several named trains as part of their passenger service. One was the Powhatan Arrow that ran daily from Norfolk to Cincinnati concurrent with another running in the opposite direction. I’m thinking about a book called Chasing the Powhatan Arrow, exploring the history of the train through the eyes of the people who knew it.

I sent some emails recently to some people who posted on the Internet about their experiences. I got this one from a woman named Wadine Toliaferro who now lives in Philadelphia. She wrote:

Hello Michael,
Thank you for writing. Congratulations on all of your books including the one you are writing, now. I grew up in Northfork, WVa, but was born in Roanoke.
I can tell you that as a child the Powhatan Arrow was the start of my love for trains. Even, today, I can smell the inside of the train station in Northfork... the smell is from the wooden benches.
At the age of eight, my father gave me a full Lionel as a Christmas gift; it was cherished into adulthood. My mother had someone clean out the basement and the train went missing.
I was adopted at birth in 1948. My birth parents and adoptive parents agreed that I would stay connected with the maternal birth family. Subsequently, there were many trips on the Powhatan Arrow to and from Roanoke. On trips to Roanoke, my mother always packed a lunch for the ride to Roanoke; as a six year old I was interested in eating in the dining car. Before the Powhatan Arrow arrived I was asking my mother if we could eat in the dining car and she was always said no. Once on the train the nagging started again and eventually she gave in. The linen table cloths were white and crisp as crisp could be. Bud vases with flowers were on every table, and standing in the back of the car, on the left side, was a man in a white jacket waiting to take MY order. On these rides, I was a princess. The Powhatan Arrow was special and made me special, and because it ran through our town, the town was special. I remember the Arrow passing by and waving at passengers, longing to be among them.
In my office today, there are pictures of trains that remind me of where I grew up and my experience of trains.
Thanks again for this opportunity (to discuss the Powhatan Arrow).
Wadine Toliaferro

I have also spoken with Bev Fitzpatrick who is the Executive Director of the Virginia Transportation Museum in Roanoke. It is home to the last remaining locomotive of the famous “J” class that powered the Powhatan Arrow. This fabulous steam engine achieved 110 miles per hour in a speed test and could cruise at 90. Bev is excited about this project and eager to help me get started.

A new journey is underway!

* * Climbing Pearis Mountain

People live busy lives and interests change over time.  So it’s been hard for me to find friends to take part in activities that I enjoy like hiking our mountains.  In the past couple of years, however, a graduate student in Aerospace Engineering at Virginia Tech has become a frequent companion on the trails.  Kyle and I took the opportunity on a cold but clear day yesterday to climb one of the area’s most dramatic mountains. 
I picked Kyle up at his apartment in town and headed north across Brush Mountain and Gap Mountain into Giles County.  We drove into Pearisburg and parked at a car dealership that is only a few paces from the famous Appalachian Trial.  We remarked how most trailheads are deep in the woods often on gravel roads, which this one was right in town.  Very convenient!
The trail up Pearis Mountain is pancake flat for only the first 100 yards.  But things quickly change.  We began our ascent, working our muscles into climbing form.  It was cold enough to require wool clothing, a jacket, and a hat.  But the warmth of exertion had us balancing between being too hot and too cold. 
Kyle is nearing completion of his Masters Degree and his defense of his thesis is only a couple of weeks away.  He is a smart kid and I enjoy his knowledge and perspective.  I was once an engineering student at Virginia Tech myself, so we always have much to talk about.
Half-way up the mountain, the trail was in places covered with a light dusting of snow.  As we continued to climb, the snow was deeper in places and where boots had flattened it already it had become ice.  I was using trekking poles to help maintain my balance but the going was strenuous.  We stopped for several short breaks to catch our breath.  The last hundred yards to the boulder-filled summit were particularly icy and treacherous, as the trail was on the northeastern slope where the low winter sun seldom warmed it.  We reached the summit about 95 minutes from leaving the car.  We stopped only briefly at the summit as it was shady, cold, and uninviting. 
Kyle is 23 and I am 56. Given his youthful exuberance and fitness, I am no match for him in strenuous activities like climbing mountains. But he typically walks behind me.  Were he in front, I couldn’t keep him in sight.  Our conversations are stimulating and interesting. 
We walked another half-mile on the ridgeline until we found an overlook to the south, providing expansive views and some warmth from the bright sun.  We ate our lunch on a dramatic rock outcropping.  We had seen some footprints in the snow before our own, but no other hikers.  I found a nice pair of sunglasses on the trail but couldn’t envision any way to find their rightful owners. If they’re yours and you can identify them, I’m happy to give them back!
We returned to the summit and walked the short distance to the overlook called Angels Rest. There were three other hikers occupying that space, so we didn’t linger. 
Last week, a member of my Rotary Club had admonished me for my hiking, saying she thought the danger was too great to risk injury before my big trip to South America in March.  “Danger?” I thought. Geez, I do motorcycling and bicycling, both of which I consider more dangerous than walking the trails.  However, on our way down, I wasn’t so sure.  The ice was harder and slicker and downhill is always more treacherous than uphill.  I fell harmlessly a couple of times.  After one fall, I said to Kyle, “I just want to sit here for a moment and rest.”
We reached the car about four hours after leaving it, tired but happy to have spent time together in the great outdoors. 


* * Receiving kind words

One of the more interesting people I met during the research for The Spine of the Virginias was Tazewell’s Bob McGraw, an amateur Civil War historian and re-enactor. When Bob died during the process of bringing the book to print, I printed a memorial page in the introductory section.  His widow, Anita, ordered several books for his brother, sister, and son.  When she received the books, she sent me a kind letter that included these words.

“(The books will make) meaningful gifts to them. I don’t think any of them knew how deeply my husband felt about his history and how much he cared about this community.  I suspect most siblings and children lack understanding of their parent’s or brother’s life outside the family.

“Thank you for your work in the world.  Thank you for honoring my husband, Bob McGraw.”

Makes all the work worthwhile…



* * Exploring new writing and editing opportunities

Being on the road doing research for and selling my books has brought me many wonderful friendships.  Happily, it has also brought me some paying work in helping other aspiring authors. 

Dwight Hayes runs a photography studio in Rocky Mount.  I met him while doing research on my upcoming book, Harmonic Highways.  He admitted that for some time, he’d been interested in writing a book to document his transition from Jehovah’s Witnesses to a more mainstream denomination of Christianity.  When I encouraged him to get started, he asked if I would be willing to coach him along the way.  We came to terms and for the past several months, he has been sending me chapter drafts which I have edited and hopefully improved.  If all goes well, his book will be ready for publication soon.

I met Jeremiah Heaton in Abingdon, also while I was working on Harmonic Highways.  He was in the midst of a quixotic campaign for Congress, having the backing of neither political party.  He said he was interested in documenting his quest, once the campaign was over.  When we traded email last week, he said he’d been able to catch up on all the things undone during the campaign and was ready to begin a conversation about working together on this book.  We’ll see where that goes.

Louise Belmont is an heiress to the founding family of Reynolds Metals. I met her while working on my first book, The Spine of the Virginias.  She mentioned that the tiny village of Critz, Virginia, was the hometown of her grandfather, who founded the company. His brother, J.R. Reynolds was also an entrepreneur, founding the eponymous tobacco company. She said there were several other successful entrepreneurs from the same village.  She suggested that a book might be written about the community and its masters of industry. In our short conversation, it was unclear whether she wanted to write it herself perhaps with my help or whether it was a suggestion that I write it.  Further conversations are in order.

Hopefully these and more opportunities will arise and come to fruition as I continue to roam the hills and valleys of the central Appalachians.  How about you?  Got any ideas?